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THE DYING BOY.
'Twas early summer, pleasant June had come,Flinging her coronals on every bough,And from the soft southwest, with perfume rife,The light-winged zephyrs wooed the coy young flowers.The brooks like playful children babbled on,Loosed from their icy bondage, and the birds,Nature's unwearied choir, tuned their clear notes,And in the wild-wood shades held revelry.Earth wore her robes of light and loveliness;There were no clouds athwart the deep blue heaven,
