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BLISS CARMAN
Ah, not in dreams at all, Fleering, perishing, dim, But thy old self, supple and tall, Mistress and child of whim!
��The proud imperious guise, Impetuous and serene, The sad mysterious eyes,
Yea, wilt thou not return, When the late hill-winds veer, And the bright hill-flowers burn With the reviving year ?
When April comes, and the sea
Sparkles as if it smiled,
Will they restore to me
My dark Love, empress and child?
The curtains seem to part; A sound is on the stair, As if at the last ... I start; Only the wind is there.
Lo, now far on the hills The crimson fumes uncurl 'd, Where the caldron mantles and spills
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