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’Twas a 1 )vely thought to mark the hours, 
As they floated in light away, 
By the opening and the folding flowers 
That laugh to the summer’s day. 
Thus had each moment its own rich hue, 
And its graceful cup and hell, 
In whose coloured vase might sleep the dew, 
Like a pearl in an ocean shell. 
To such sweet signs might the time have flowed, 
In a golden current on, 
Ere from the garden, man’s first abode, 
The glorious guests were gone. 
So might the days have been brightly told— 
Those days of song and dreams— 
When shepherds gathered their flocks of old 
By the blue Arcadian streams; 
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