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FOR THE ESPOUSALS OF JEANNE ROUMANILLE, OF AVIGNON

While joy-bells are ringing
And the high Fates meet thee,
Child of the South, and of singing,
Singing I greet thee.
In thy chaplet one flower
From a far world! Wilt wear it?
Rich tho' thy land, and this hour,
Thou may'st not forbear it;
Thou wilt welcome and win it;
It will breathe on, caress thee;
For the fame of thy father is in it;
His lover doth bless thee!
His lover—the lover of thee, O Provence;
Thy blue skies, thy gray mountains;
The heart-beat of Freedom and France
Shakes thy rivers and fountains,

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And makes thee a dream and a passion
In the souls of all poets forever,
While from thy fire thou dost fashion
Beauty and music and art that shall perish, O, never!