IN QUEST
With the first blush of morning, my soul is awing,Away o'er the phantom lands free, wandering,I seek thee in hamlet, in woodland, and hall,Till night-shades, enfolding my tired heart, fall.
Yet ever and alway, like the thrush in a tree,My heart lifts its preluding love-song to thee;I call through the days, through the long weary years,And slumber at night-fall, refreshed by my tears.
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