Still though the one I sing,
(One, yet of contradictions made) I dedicate to Nationality,
I leave in him revolt, (O latent right of insurrection! O quenchless, indispensable fire!)
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What though the green leaf grow?
’T will last a month and day;
In all sweet flowers that blow
Lurks Death, his slave Decay.But if my lady smile
There is no Death at all;
The world is fair the while,—
What though the red leaf fall?