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Thou giv'st me flowers, thou giv'st me songs;—bring back The love that I have lost!

wak'st thou, Spring? sweet voices in the woods, And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute; Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes, The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute, Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee, Ev'n as our hearts may be.

And the leaves greet thee, Spring!—the joyous leaves, Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade, Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, When thy south-wind hath pierc'd the whispery shade, And happy murmurs, running thro' the grass, Tell that thy footsteps pass.