| Evening at Home, An |
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| To — |
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| Joy like a stream flows through the Christmas-streets |
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| I wrote a Name upon the river sands |
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| Scene 3 - |
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| I cannot deem why men toil so for Fame |
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| Last night my cheek was wetted with warm tears |
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| Like clouds or streams we wandered on at will |
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| Beauty still walketh on the earth and air |
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| There have been vast displays of critic wit |
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