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These golden Buttercups are April's seal,-
These grew so lowly, I was forced to kneel,
Here's Daisies for the morn, Primrose for gloom,
Pansies and Roses for the noontide hours:
A wight once made a dial of their bloom,
THE dead are in their silent graves,
And the dew is cold above,
And the living weep and sigh,
Over dust that once was love.
Once I only wept the dead,
But now the living cause my pain:
How couldst thou steal me from my tears,
To leave me to my tears again?
My Mother rests beneath the sod,
Her rest is calm and very deep :
Last night unbound my raven locks,
The morning saw them turn'd to gray,
But thou art chang'd, — and so are they!
The useless lock I gave thee once,
To gaze upon and think of me,
Was ta'en with smiles, but this was torn
In sorrow that I send to thee!
ODE TO MELANCHOLY.
COME, let us set our careful breasts,
That makes her accents so forlorn;
The world! - it is a wilderness,
Where tears are hung on every tree;
For thus my gloomy phantasy
Makes all things weep with me!