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I told her all my love, and sure 
Joy made me eloquent. 
For though her blush was deep, her brow 
No frown upon me bent. 
Little she spoke, but her small hand 
Was not withdrawn from mine. 
And the bright tear which I might see 
Under the eyelash shine. 
Told not of sorrow, but deep joy; 
And soon a smile o’erspread 
tier blushing face, that chased away 
The tear-drop ere ’twas shed. 
Together joined we that gay throng 
That happy birth-day eve ; 
Our loneliness had passed away, 
As ye may well believe. 
Such was the story told by one 
Who well might love to gaze 
Upon the lowly hud that bore 
Such dreams of earlier days. 
But ever does that humble flower 
That gems the aging year. 
