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ALL June
I bound the rose in sheaves.
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Now, rose by
rose, I strip the leaves
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And strow
them where Pauline may pass.
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She will not
turn aside? Alas!
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Let them lie.
Suppose they die?
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The chance
was they might take her eye.
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How many a
month I strove to suit
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These
stubborn fingers to the lute!
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To-day I
venture all I know.
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She will not
hear my music? So!
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Break the
string; fold music’s wing:
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Suppose
Pauline had bade me sing!
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My whole life
long I learn’d to love.
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This hour my
utmost art I prove
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And speak my
passion—heaven or hell?
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She will not
give me heaven? ’T is well!
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Lose who
may—I still can say,
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Those who win
heaven, bless’d are they!
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