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THE MEET OF THE WINDS.

Never to the cruel gods we pray;

No vigil for a fancied future keeping,

We seek the pleasures of the bright to-day.

And there are ever-changing flowers blooming,

Nor ever of their wondrous fragrance coy;

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Hazily the future darkly looming

Fades before the golden wind of joy.

She ceased; and soft a timid breeze came, sighing,

From distant islets floating on the Southern Sea,

Each breath of aromatic incense dying

As waves that sink upon its bosom dreamily.

No wind am I, but am the breath of Sleep;

I free thee from thy fretted, lonely soul:

Forget that thou canst labor, laugh, or weep,

And cease to struggle for the mocking goal;

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