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WEET boy! before thy lips can learn
 * In speech thy wishes to make known,

Are “thoughts that breathe and words that burn,”
 * Heard in thy music’s tone.

Were Genius tasked to prove the might,
 * The magic of her hidden spell,

She well might name thee with delight
 * As her own miracle.

Who that hath heard, from summer trees,
 * The sweet wild song of summer birds,

When morning to the far-off breeze
 * Whispers her bidding words;

Or listened to the bird of night,
 * The minstrel of the starlight hours,

Companion of the firefly’s flight,
 * Cool dews, and closèd flowers;