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These Little Songs

 These little Songs,
Found here and there, 
Floating in air 
By forest and lea, 
Or hill-side heather, 
In houses and throngs, 
Or down by the sea - 
Have come together, 
How, I can't tell: 
But I know full well 
No witty goose-wing 
On an inkstand begot 'em; 
Remember each place 
And moment of grace, 
In summer or spring, 
Winter or autumn 
By sun, moon, stars, 
Or a coal in the bars, 
In market or church, 
Graveyard or dance, 
When they came without search, 
Were found as by chance.
A word, a line, You may say are mine; But the best in the songs, Whatever it be, To you, and to me, And to no one belongs.

by William Allingham
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