Harken! - the clouds mustered in dark - So painfully easing. Hush! - hearest ye the yew doting; Its years of yore in a mire, Each like a corpse within its grave; Wrought for us a yearn of lief; Tis not a lore of bale nor loathe; Harmony and aesthesia are its blisses; Ne`er ere hath it exist`d so sonorously - Jostl`d away the pale drape That us had been o`erhung - Tempt`d thy shutters to open And thus quench`d the hearth; Thou giv`st to misery all thou hast: the cold - With weal embrac`d the sprounting landscape Like a star of heaven in the broad daylight - This joy subdueth until it again waneth, Save the drooping winter of stalwart.
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