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WOULDST THOU LEARN
Wouldst thou learn what coldness is,
Seek it not where Hebrus flows,
Shuddering, to the abyss;
Nor where Hermon's gleaming snows,
On its frozen heights, repose;
But on such a morn as this,
When no blade of grass is dumb,
When the birds, low-twittering, build,
And Earth's heart is passion-thrill'd,—
Come to Love's deserted home!
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