O THAT a nest, my mate! were once more ours,
Where we, by vain and barren change untortured,
Could have grave friendships with wise trees and flowers,
And live the great, green life of field and orchard!

From the cold birthday of the daffodils,
Ev'n to that listening pause that is November,
O to confide in woods, confer with hills,
And then — then, to that palmland you remember,

Fly swift, where seas that brook not Winter's rule
Are one vast violet breaking into lilies:
There where we spent our first strange wedded Yule,
Far in the golden, fire-hearted Antilles.
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