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Savior! I've no one else to tell -- Savior! I’ve no one else to tell –
And so I trouble thee.
I am the one forgot thee so –
Dost thou remember me?
Nor, for myself, I came so far –
That were the little load –
I brought thee the imperial Heart
I had not strength to hold –
The Heart I carried in my own –
Till mine too heavy grew –
Yet — strangest — heavier since it went –
Is it too large for you?

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We don't cry -- Tim and I,We don’t cry — Tim and I,
We are far too grand –
But we bolt the door tight
To prevent a friend –

Then we hide our brave face
Deep in our hand –
Not to cry — Tim and I –
We are far too grand –

Nor to dream — he and me –
Do we condescend –
We just shut our brown eye
To see to the end –

Tim — see Cottages –
But, Oh, so high!
Then — we shake — Tim and I –
And lest I — cry –

Tim — reads a little Hymn –
And we both pray –
Please, Sir, I and Tim –
Always lost the way!

We must die — by and by –
Clergymen say –
Tim — shall — if I — do –
I — too — if he –

How shall we arrange it –
Tim — was — so — shy?
Take us simultaneous — Lord –
I — “Tim” — and Me!

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It's such a little thing to weep --It’s such a little thing to weep –
So short a thing to sigh –
And yet — by Trades — the size of these
We men and women die!

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What shall I do -- it whimpers so --What shall I do — it whimpers so –
This little Hound within the Heart
All day and night with bark and start –
And yet, it will not go –
Would you untie it, were you me –
Would it stop whining — if to Thee –
I sent it — even now?

It should not tease you –
By your chair — or, on the mat –
Or if it dare — to climb your dizzy knee –
Or — sometimes at your side to run –
When you were willing –
Shall it come?
Tell Carlo –
He’ll tell me!

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Tho' my destiny be Fustian --Tho’ my destiny be Fustian –
Hers be damask fine –
Tho’ she wear a silver apron –
I, a less divine –

Still, my little Gypsy being
I would far prefer,
Still, my little sunburnt bosom
To her Rosier,

For, when Frosts, their punctual fingers
On her forehead lay,
You and I, and Dr. Holland,
Bloom Eternally!

Roses of a steadfast summer
In a steadfast land,
Where no Autumn lifts her pencil –
And no Reapers stand!

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