The violet in her greenwood bower, Where birchen boughs with hazel mingle, May boast itself the fairest flower In glen, or copse, or forest dingle. Though fair her gems of azure hue, Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining; I've seen an eye of lovelier blue, More sweet through wat'ry lustre shining. The summer sun that dew shall dry, Ere yet the day be past its morrow; No longer in my false love's eye Remain'd the tear of parting sorrow.
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