| Salad |
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| Haunted the depths of the mystic dusk |
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| Of worthless earth. O musical sigh |
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| And strew fresh blossoms at Amy's feet |
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| Ring merrily out, cathedral bells |
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| But hotter than Summer my blood's free flow |
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| O now may I gaze in her deep grey eyne! |
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| Are they not mine? O moorlands wide |
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| Amy the beautiful leaned from the ledge |
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| Piling it high in a perilous drift |
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