The year has but one June, dear friend;
The year has but one June;
And when that perfect month doth end,
The robin's song, though loud, though long,
Seems never quite in tune.
The rose, though...
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Changed? Yes, I will confess it—I have changed. |
When my blood flows calm as a purling river, |
I have lived this life as the skeptic lives it; |
In the midnight of darkness and terror, |
|
Poor Muse, alas, what ails thee, then, to-day? |
Your gran'ma, in her youth, was quite |
|
The band was playing a waltz-quadrille, |