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My true account, lest he returning chide;
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
No shade was on us then, save one
Of chestnuts from the hill
And through the wood our laugh did run
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower
The birds around me hopp'd and play'd;
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
From Heaven if this belief be sent,
What man has made of man?
Those eyes, for ever drooping, give
Hast thou not cut that flounce enough,
To which thou never turnest.
Ye graceful fingers, deftly sped!
Oh! might I wind their skeins of thread,
How blest the youth whom love shall bring,
And happy stars embolden,
To change the dome into a ring,
The silver into golden!
Who'll steal some morning to her side,
Who'll watch her sew her wedding gown,
Who'll taste those ripenings of the south,
Don't put the pins into your mouth,
O Mary Anne, my precious!