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That singeth from the heart's excess Of eager, transient joyfulness.

Like overcare it may appear, To me that mirth was touched with fear.

I loved her then—I love her still, Alike in good, alike in ill; To me no after-life can bring So anxious or so dear a thing; She is my hope—she is my youth— She brings the freshness and the truth, The kindliness of early years, The all yet unwashed out by tears. Let those forsake her side who will, I shall but cleave more dearly still; Let every other love depart, My sister has her sister's heart.