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In the May-time's golden glory Ere the quivering sun was high, I heard the Wind of Morning Through the laughing meadows fly; In his passion-song was throbbing All the madness of the May, And he whispered: Thou hast labored; Thou art weary; come away! Thou shalt drink a fiery potion For thy prisoned spirit's pain; Thou shalt taste the ancient rapture That thy soul has sought in vain.
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