HER SONG
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SANG that song on Sunday,To witch an idle while,I sang that song on Monday,As fittest to beguile;I sang it as the year outwore,And the new slid in;I thought not what might shape beforeAnother would begin. I sang that song in summer,All unforeknowingly,To him as a new-comerFrom regions strange to me:I sang it when in afteryearsThe shades stretched out,And paths were faint; and flocking fearsBrought cup-eyed care and doubt. Sings he that song on SundaysIn some dim land afar,On Saturdays, or Mondays,As when the evening starGlimpsed in upon his bending faceAnd my hanging hair,And time untouched me with a traceOf soul-smart or despair?
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