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Was not her sweet breathing meant To echo the low murmur sent By the flowers, and by the rill, When all save the wind is still? As if to tell of those fair things High thoughts, pure imaginings, That recall how bright, how fair, In our other state we were. And at last, when I have spent A calm life in mild content, May my spirit pass away As the early leaves decay: Spring shakes her gay coronal, One sweet breath, and then they fall. Only let the red-breast bring Moss to strew me with, and sing