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thee, dear one, heed him not, Love has an unquiet lot; Why for words of fear and fate, Shouldst thou change thy sweet estate? Linger yet upon the hour Of the green leaf and the flower. Art thou happy? For thy sake Do the birds their music make— Birds with golden plumes that bring Sunshine from a distant spring. For thine eyes the roses grow Red as sunset, white as snow. And the bees are gathering gold Ere the winter hours come cold. Flowers are colouring the wild wood, Art thou weary of thy childhood? Break not its enchanted reign, Such life never knows again.