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You tell me I must come again
Now buds and blooms appear;
Ah! never fell one word in vain
Of yours on mortal ear.
You say the birds are busy now
In hedgerow, brake, and grove,
And slant their eyes to find the bough
That best conceals their love:
How many warble from the spray!
How many on the wing!
"Yet, yet," say you, "one voice away
I miss the sound of spring."
How little could that voice express,
Beloved, when we met!
But other sounds hath tenderness,
Which neither shall forget.