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Updated: May 29, 2025
Slow now are brooks running because of the weed, And the thrush hath no cunning to hide her at need, So swift as she flieth from hedge-row to tree As one that toil trieth, and deedful must be. And O! that at last, All sorrows past, This night I lay 'Neath the oak-beams grey! O, to wake from sleep, To see dawn creep Through the fruitful grove Of the house that I love!
There were no cockle-shells, or tape-sandals, or staves, or scrips, or anything romantic and pious about the eight persons who set out for Hazelbridge that morning, more earnestly wishful to be good and deedful at least Oswald, I know, was than ever they had been in the days of the beastly Wouldbegood Society. It was a fine day.
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