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 With tears in her sweet eyes

To kiss away, shyly

The Maiden comes, and, as she moves along,

The woods and waking wolds intone her praise.

I, too, where all things tell

Of Autumn chill and blight,—

I, too, will praise her, ay, with transport hymn

The unforgotten sweetness of the spring.

How desolate were Man

If, robbed of dear delight,

He might not with remembrance fond pursue

And find his happiness, and lead it back!

The mournful Stygian shades

Were less forlorn than he;

For they have memory, and cannot lose

Bright visions once in conscious bliss possessed!

Through Hades' wailful halls,

Bereft of Proserpine,

They pensive glide, yet feel the far, sweet spring,

And seem to breathe lost Enna's distant flowers.