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Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing, O far-off grassy dell?—and dost thou see, When southern winds first wake the vernal singing, The star-gleam of the wood anemone? Doth the shy ring-dove haunt thee yet—the bee Hang on thy flowers as when I breathed farewell To their wild blooms? and round my beechen tree Still, in green softness, doth the moss-bank swell? —Oh! strange illusion by the fond heart wrought, Whose own warm life suffuses nature's face! —My being's tide of many-coloured thought Hath passed from thee, and now, rich, leafy place! I paint thee oft, scarce consciously, a scene, Silent, forsaken, dim, shadowed by what hath been.