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Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat?
Loves of his own, and raptures swell the note.
Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat?
Loves of his own, and raptures swell the note.
Linnets . . . sit
On the dead tree, a dull despondent flock.
Linnets . . . sit
On the dead tree, a dull despondent flock.
Perch'd on the cedar's topmost bough,
And gay with gilded wings,
Perchance the patron of his vow,
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Perch'd on the cedar's topmost bough,
And gay with gilded wings,
Perchance the patron of his vow,
Some artless linnet sings.
I do sing because I must,
And pipe but as the linnets sing.
I do sing because I must,
And pipe but as the linnets sing.