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SHE wanders in the April woods, | |
That glisten with the fallen shower; | |
She leans her face against the buds, | |
She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower. | |
She feels the ferment of the hour: | 5 |
She broodeth when the ringdove broods; | |
The sun and flying clouds have power | |
Upon her cheek and changing moods. | |
She cannot think she is alone, | |
As over her senses warmly steal | 10 |
Floods of unrest she fears to own | |
And almost dreads to feel. | |
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Among the summer woodlands wide | |
Anew she roams, no more alone; | |
The joy she feared is at her side, | 15 |
Springs blushing secret now is known. | |
The primrose and its mates have flown, | |
The thrushs ringing note hath died; | |
But glancing eye and glowing tone | |
Fall on her from her god, her guide. | 20 |
She knows not, asks not, what the goal, | |
She only feels she moves towards bliss, | |
And yields her pure unquestioning soul | |
To touch and fondling kiss. | |
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And still she haunts those woodland ways, | 25 |
Though all fond fancy finds there now | |
To mind of spring or summer days, | |
Are sodden trunk and songless bough. | |
The past sits widowed on her brow, | |
Homeward she wends with wintry gaze, | 30 |
To walls that house a hollow vow, | |
To hearth where love hath ceased to blaze; | |
Watches the clammy twilight wane, | |
With grief too fixed for woe or tear; | |
And, with her forehead gainst the pane, | 35 |
Envies the dying year. | |
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