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Haste! to my pillow bear Those fragrant things and fair; My hand no more may bind them up at eve, Yet shall their odour soft One bright dream round me waft Of life, youth, summer,—all that I must leave!

And oh! if thou would'st ask Wherefore thy steps I task, The grove, the stream, the hamlet-vale to trace; 'Tis that some thought of me. When I am gone, may be The spirit bound to each familiar place.

I bid mine image dwell, (Oh! break not thou the spell!) In the deep wood, and by the fountain-side; Thou must not, my belov'd!       Rove where we two have rov'd, Forgetting her that in her spring-time died!