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Or art thou seeking
Some brighter land,
Where by the south wind
Vine-leaves are fann'd?
Midst the wild billows
Why then delay?—
Bird of the greenwood,
Away, away!"
"Chide not my lingering
Where waves are dark!
A hand that hath nursed me
Is in the bark—
A heart that hath cherish'd
Through winter's long day—
So I turn from the greenwood
Away, away!"
