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me, ye reapers, tell me have ye found,

While binding up your sheaves of golden corn,

A little, laughing, lovely boy, around

Whose curly locks a harvest-wreath is bound?

Ye shepherds, who with dew-damp feet, at morn

Track your white lambs—say have ye seen forlorn

A gentle joyous child, that o'er the ground

Trips sportively? Ye forests, that adorn

The mountains—ye sweet birds—ye flowing rills—

Ye list'ning rocks—heard ye that voice's sound,

Whose strain of music thro' creation thrills?

If ye have seen not—heard not—pity me—

Help me to find the maid I love—and be

Milder than unrelenting destiny.