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III.
THE CYPRESS.
O Ivory bird, that shakest thy wan plumes,
And dost forget the sweetness of thy throat
For a most strange and melancholy note—
That wilt forsake the summer and the blooms
And go to winter in a place remote!
The country where thou goest, Ivory bird!
It hath no pleasant nesting-place for thee;
There are no skies nor flowers fair to see,
Nor any shade at noon—as I have heard—
But the black shadow of the Cypress tree.
