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THE MEET OF THE WINDS.

Sing ye rest? Naught can be until, lovingly one,

Our two souls flow in peace to the sea.

But the truth? That I love as I love the sun, -

She hath plighted her troth to me.

The wind of pleasure sought an easier sway,

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The breath of slumber sought a warmer sun,

Then slowly sighed the northern breeze away, -

For well they knew the western wind had won.

S.

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