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I shall find him, never fear, I shall find my grenadier; But for all that's gone and come, I shall find my soldier dumb.

He has lived, a little thing, In the grassy woods of spring; Done, if he could tell me true, Just as I should like to do.

He has seen the starry hours And the springing of the flowers; And the fairy things that pass In the forests of the grass.

In the silence he has heard Talking bee and ladybird, And the butterfly has flown O'er him as he lay alone.

Not a word will he disclose, Not a word of all he knows. I must lay him on the shelf, And make up the tale myself.