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 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
XVIII—SONG
The birds were singing, the skies were gay;I looked from the window on meadow and wood,
On green, green grass that the sun made white;
Beyond the river the mountain stood—
Blue was the mountain, the river was bright;
I looked on the land and it was not good,
For my own dear Love she had flown away.
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |