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Fire shall bring out their acrid scents For a walled garden’s sweets, With the melody of Flemish bells And the angles of Flemish streets.

Fire and blossom and dreamful shapes And I, while the long pain stays, Ward off the shot of the savage hours On my rampart of yesterdays.

A SONG IN A LANE

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When the Wind comes up the lane And you go down— The elms their spacious branches swing, The hidden hedgelings sing and sing, The nettle draws aside his sting And kindly weeds their shadows fling Across your sunny gown;— When the Wind comes up the lane And you go down.

When the Wind comes up the lane And you go down— Your tresses, for a gusty space, Discover all your merry face And the Wind drops with pinioned grace To kiss the small white forehead place Above your summer brown;— When the Wind comes up the lane And you go down.

CRIES OF LONDON

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What dusky branches fret the yellow sky, Betsey, beyond our urban balcony How darkly looms the street; And from below how many a note assails Your unaccustomed ears where London wails About your little feet.

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