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Cypress tree, it groweth on a mound;
And sickly are the flowers it hath of May,
Full of a false and subtle spell are they;
For whoso breathes the scent of them around,
He shall not see the happy Summer day.
In June, it bringeth forth, O Ivory bird!
A winter berry, bitter as the sea;
And whoso eateth of it, woe is he—
He shall fall pale, and sleep—as I have heard—
Long in the shadow of the Cypress tree.
