Collapse, flowers; and wither at bay
Slacken, leaves, and slither away;
Ebb, tide, and wander today—
For my love has died, and this I say:
That when September lights my brow,
He may return, and this he’d show—
From the wild-rose briar, sweet for Spring
But the witch hunt, what pleases it by thee?
Protract the night, and plummet the day,
Agitate the westerlies and stir up hate—
For I shall sing when my love falls short
And so leads in a more doleful note!
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