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  Ay, thou art welcome, heaven’s delicious breath!
  When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,
  And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief
  And the year smiles as it draws near its death.
  Wind of the sunny south! oh, still delay
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  Like to a good old age released from care,
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  In such a bright, late quiet, would that I
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