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Comes when the light comes, like that of the birds.
List to the play of it!
That is the way of it;
All's in the music and nought in the words.
Glad or grief-laden,
Schubert or Haydn,
Ballad of Erin or merry Scotch lay;
Like an evangel,
Brought from sky-nursery stealing away.
Surely I know it,
Artist nor poet
Guesses my treasure of jubilant hours.
Sorrows, what are they?
Nearer or far, they
Vanish in sunshine, like dew from the flowers.
Years, I am glad of them;
Would that I had of them
More and yet more, while thus mingled with thine
Age, I make light of it,
Fear not the sight of it,
Time's but our playmate, whose toys are divine.
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