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Over the moon the shadows go,
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Exultation is the going
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Painted upon a background of pale gold,
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It is a willow when summer is over,
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Praised be the moon of books! that doth above
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I never have taken a Peach in my Hand,
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The poet will seek to clothe herself in sparrows.
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A special happiness
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Let the cricket take up chafing
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Goodbye, Winter,