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When, smitten by the morning ray,I see thee rise alert and gay,Then, chearful Flower! my spirits playWith kindred motion:At dusk, I've seldom mark'd thee pressThe ground, as if in thankfulnessWithout some feeling, more or less,Of true devotion.
And all day long I number yet,All seasons through another debt,Which I wherever thou art met,To thee am owing;An instinct call it, a blind sense;A happy, genial influence,Coming one knows not how nor whence,Nor whither going.
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