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VERSES
And the tulip-flowers in the garden-bed
Have a glory still;
When the world of toil and the world of ease
Are alike at rest;
I can hear him play in the belt of trees
Where the fields slope west.
And the notes run high and the notes run low
In a rambling stream ;
Like an old voice calling from long ago,
A dream of a dream.
His eyes are afire with the secret light
Of a land unknown,
And the tree-stems echo his footsteps’ flight
Upon moss and stone.
There is no more staying nor rest for me
When his flute is heard.
It is out, out, out to the melody
Without sign or word.
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