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She lock'd her lips: she left me where | Drew forth the poison with her balmy

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THE BLACKBIRD.

O BLACKBIRD! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round,

I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.

The espaliers and the standards all

Are thine; the range of lawn and park : The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, All thine, against the garden wall.

Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring,
Thy sole delight is, sitting still,
With that cold dagger of thy bill
To fret the summer jenneting.

A golden bill the silver tongue,
Cold February loved, is dry:
That made thee famous once, when young:
Plenty corrupts the melody
And in the sultry garden-squares,

Now thy flute-notes are changed to

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His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone.
Close up his eyes: tie up his chin:
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth there alone,

And waiteth at the door.

There's a new foot on the floor, my
friend,

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I have not look'd upon you nigh,

Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep.
Great Nature is more wise than I :
I will not tell you not to weep.

And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew,
Drawn from the spirit thro' the
brain,

And a new face at the door, my friend, I will not even preach to you,
A new face at the door.

TO J. S.

THE wind, that beats the mountain, blows
More softly round the open wold,
And gently comes the world to those

That are cast in gentle mould.

And me this knowledge bolder made,

Or else I had not dared to flow
In these words toward you, and invade
Even with a verse your holy woe.

"Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain.'

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