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THE POETASTER.

"THY praise sounds cold, indeed, to me

Thou friend, that ever, smilingly,

Dost read the paltry words that free

My petty thoughts in minstrelsy."

Just good enough to please a friend

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With the mere artifice of verse;

Just bad enough in one to blend

A pleasure slight, a mighty curse, -

My little songs fly forth to die,

Like insects frail that live a day;

And yet my soul doth ever sigh

Its secret thoughts once more to say.

For when I see the mountains stand,

Snow-capped in silent majesty,

I cannot sit with idle hand,

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