There's under my lattice at dawn, a bird's song:
The day is long!
And fair, out of the South the wind blows,
And soft as a maiden's cheek the morn glows.
There are flowers to gather and with them the dew,
Take them or leave them or trample a few.
Some — to pluck them I would not care;
And others — to touch them I would not dare.
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