THE POND
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n this pond of placid water,Half a hundred years ago,So they say, a farmer’s daughter,Jilted by her farmer beau, Waded out among the rushes,Scattering the blue dragon-flies;That dried stick the ripple washesMarks the spot, I should surmise. Think, so near the public highway,Well frequented even then!Can you not conceive the sly way,--Hearing wheels or seeing men Passing on the road above,--With a gesture feigned and silly,Ere she drowned herself for love,She would reach to pluck a lily?
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