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FOR ONCE
Thrust upward your green shoots and drink the sun,
Tulip and daffodil! The leaves shall spread
Their foliage and the punctual seasons run
Their unremitted course till I am dead.
O Memory, Memory, sharp must be your sting
And bitter-sweet; for 'till my dream-tossed world
Into the night from which it rose is hurled.
No more, no more shall I know such a Spring!
