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MY CHOICE.

IV.

I cannot sing as Ovid sung,

My harp with rustic cords is strung;

No Hyblaean honey on my tongue

Was dropped by Plato's bees.

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But I can chant a simple lay

To please myself, as well as they;

A carol caught from June and May,

And learned beneath the trees.

V.

O, I can sing the summer days,

When in New England's woodland ways,

We wandered till the sun's red haze

Came slanting through the boughs;

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