| Poem: |
Sadder than lark when lowering
clouds defend the sky;
sadder than wild swan pouring
death—notes ere it die;
sadder than winds imploring
shelter when storms are high,—
couldst thou be less than adoring,
more sad were I.
Happy as streamlet flowing
'twixt banks of heathery peat;
happy as murmur going
through the inclining wheat;
happy as mother glowing
over her little one's feet,—
I am happy in knowing,
thou'rt mine, my sweet!
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