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Sunday up the River

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Written by James Thomson

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 MY love o'er the water bends dreaming; 
 It glideth and glideth away: 
She sees there her own beauty, gleaming 
 Through shadow and ripple and spray.
O tell her, thou murmuring river, As past her your light wavelets roll, How steadfast that image for ever Shines pure in pure depths of my soul.

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