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Farewell thee, A charming hearth

Farewell we call to the wind in the heather
To caverns old, even the merry finches sing
how the realm will be if darkling avaunt altogether
Ruth at embouchure, the winter falls without a spring
Whither do thou find meadow-flowers ne’er seen
Yonder the spring comes without a hemlock
Hither do thou find grasses with different green
Ere the willow blooms, even the misty heath yawps
O! Wanderer of ashen-cold, here comes the spring
Newts and blind-worms dance to its whistling wind,
Hark! As the blossom lay or rather linger rest aloft
The frost left the eve and the roots as do they oft
Perchance it soothes thee, the little droplets in leaves
fierce and fey, the golden lilies or the light upon the trees,
Neither nasty nor haste, the music in the morning-breeze
Like a spell, the fountains fell even in the dungeons deep
Indeed indeed, hard to express, the knave and his tipsy cat
That plays the fiddle away in spring like none other ever fret
Away away, otherwhere it fades, the music left as did the rest
In the drought and thenceforth the Spring is on for another quest

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