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Why should I sing when every living voice
Carols in joy for my love's holiday?
Why should I laugh when all the skies rejoice,
Blue-girt and silvered in each sun-kissed ray?
Yea, though the skies, the earth, each God-sent thing,
In flowering field, or glen, or deep-set moor,
Croon softly each to each, still shall I sing,
Tho weak the chords or be the accents poor.
These shall I bring for my love's golden fare,
These shall I give as down my days she trips—
Song-burthened zephyrs for her wind-blown hair,
Garlands of laughter for her crimson lips,
Laughter or song, 'tis but love's joyous fee,
Deep from the treasure of my heart to thee.
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