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 * We are tired of painted Marys.
 * Thou shalt stir thyself again,
 * And be queen of our vagaries.
 * Men no more shall worship pain
 * When they taste how brave the air is,

When they herald thee with laughter, and with roses entertain.


 * When thy lilies bloom once more,
 * When thy bosomed rosebuds waken,
 * Love shall be our only lore,
 * Cares and creeds be all forsaken;
 * And we'll wander by the shore,
 * Up among the forest bracken,

Decked with leaf and crowned with branches,—children as we were before.