| The windy years have strewn down distant ways;
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| and in the halls still doth thy spirit sing
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| songs of old memory amid thy present tears,
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| or hope of days to come half sad with many fears.
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| Though along thy paths no longer runs
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| while war untimely takes thy many sons,
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| no tide of treason can thy glory drown
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| robed in sad majesty, the stars thy crown.
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| I am the blood!
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| Old mornings dawn,
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| i am not the light you see,
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| but only that which is falling on me.
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| The misty stars thy crown, the night thy dress,
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| most peerless magical thou dost possess my heart,
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| and old days come to life again,
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| old mornings dawn… |