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Poem	WHEN the vine again is blowing, Then the wine moves in the cask; When the rose again is glowing, Wherefore should I feel oppress'd? Down my cheeks run tears all-burning, If I do, or leave my task; I but feel a speechless yearning, That pervades my inmost breast. But at length I see the reason, When the question I would ask: 'Twas in such a beauteous season, Doris glowed to make me blest! 1797.
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