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THE RETURN OF PROSERPINE
To welcome her the Mother wakes
The myriad music of her rills,
And trims the border of her lakes
With sun-lit daffodils:
Softly she counterpanes the leas,
With primrose-bloom bedecks the vales,
While answering her wooing gales,
Come ruby-pied anemones;
And as her wintry doubts depart,
And brightening hopes foretell the morrow,
Such happiness o'erflows her heart
There's left no room for sorrow!
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