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Too red, too red the roses were,
Too black the ivy on the tree--


Dear, at the trembling of your hair
All my despair comes back to me.


Too blue and tender was the sky,
The sea too green, the air too sweet--


I always fear--why should not I?--
The cruel fleeing of your feet.


I am weary of leaves bright and dim,
Of shining box and sombre yew,


Of the horizon's endless rim,
And of all things but you ... but you ...