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feet half hid in violets, small hands in a burden fair, A burden of Spring's first blossoms she wove for her neck and hair Into wreaths, as she paused a moment on the threshold of maidenhood. O my child love! hesitating, there I met her as she stood. So I stayed till I grew weary—man's discontent, I ween— Then I thought I longed for Summer, with trees for ever green. I tired of primrose blossoms and the budding boughs of spring, And the chirp! chirp! of this year's birds that had not learned to sing. I thought her soft arms too slender, and the smooth young cheek too clear,