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Poem	THE WINTER it is past, and the summer comes at last And the small birds, they sing on ev’ry tree; Now ev’ry thing is glad, while I am very sad, Since my true love is parted from me. The rose upon the breer, by the waters running clear, May have charms for the linnet or the bee; Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest, But my true love is parted from me.
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