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POEMS. 107
You left for me to hue ; There was no purple suitable, You took it all with you.
Who knocks ? That April !
Lock the door !
I will not be pursued !
He stayed away a year, to call
When I am occupied.
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come,
That blame is just as dear as praise
And praise as mere as blame.
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