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I met thee first in May, Mary!

The flower-crowned month of May;

But now thou art away, Mary!

Away from me—away!

Thou wert that all to me, Mary!

That all on earth to me,

That I will be to thee, Mary!

In Heaven above to thee.

Ah! then thine eyes were mild, Mary!

Thy deep blue eyes were mild;

For thou wert then a child, Mary!

And I another child.

Thou wert that all to me, Mary!

That all on earth to me,

That I will be to thee, Mary!

In Heaven above to thee.

Thy face was then so meek, Mary!

So saintly mild, so meek,

Thy lily-form seemed weak, Mary!

And mine for thine grew weak