IV
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he passionate pages of his earlier years,Fraught with hot sighs, sad laughters, kisses, tears;Fresh-fluted notes, yet from a minstrel whoBlew them not naïvely, but as one who knewFull well why thus he blew. V I still can hear the brabble and the roarAt those thy tunes, O still one, now passed throughThat fitful fire of tongues then entered new!Their power is spent like spindrift on this shore;Thine swells yet more and more.
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