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PERSEPHONE
And came no more for the whitethroat's lay,
Or the pewee's plaintive calling:
In tender tints on her broidered shoon
Blossomed the leaves of the myrtle,
And silky buds of the darling June
Were folded up in her kirtle;
And fair, fair, fair, in her sunlit hair
Were violets intertwining,
That seemed more fresh and unfading there
Than when with dewdrops shining!
She hid them all in her dim retreat:
But, heart! a truce to sighing;
She's here—incomparably sweet,
Unchanging and undying!
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