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Poem	SHOULD these songs, love, as they fleet, Chance again to reach thy hand, At the piano take thy seat, Where thy friend was wont to stand! Sweep with finger bold the string, Then the book one moment see: But read not! do nought but sing! And each page thine own will be! Ah, what grief the song imparts With its letters, black on white, That, when breath'd by thee, our hearts Now can break and now delight! 1800.*
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