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Light goes the butterfly, what time
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Methinks my tenderness the grass must be
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In autumn a cicada dead
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The Heartless Government Office,—ay! and the cuckoo
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Yes, I am old; but yet with doleful stour
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What though the waters of that antique rill
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The Seventh Night of the Seventh Moon
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'Tis evening, and in serried file
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The Grave of the Maiden of Unai
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The Pearls
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