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A NORTHERN MÆNAD
Comrade! Comrade!
Pinetrees, have you seen my Comrade?
Have ye seen him, gentle beeches?
In and out the lonely woodland
Still I follow, still he flies.
Wherefore fly
Heart of hearts? Ah, Face of faces,
Wherefore wilt thou hide? Yet, hidden,
Look upon my face—it withers,
And my heart it dies, for thee!
The brown bracken
Droops; the bark falls off the branches;
Crush the moss, my feet! For crushen,
Cast-off, dead, I wander; unsought,
Undesir’d, not recognised!
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