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The clustering hazel! — ah! as with a spell 
Those few brief words recall the bygone hours, 
Wien the heart’s pulse was music, and on flowers, — 
Bright, thornless flowers, mv footsteps ever fell. 
Ev’n now, methinks, I see the bushy dell, 
The tangled brake, green lane, or sunny glade, 
Where, “ on a sunshine holiday,” 1 strayed, 
Plucking the ripening nuts with eager glee, 
Which from the hazel boughs hung temptingly; 
Till falling dews, and flowerets’ closing bell, 
To my unwilling heart did Eve’s dun reign foretell. 
’T is not, O Time ! that thou dost pale the rose 
On youth’s fair cheek, or stain the lily’s snows 
(Mar as thou wilt these graces of our prime) — 
’T is not for this I dread thee, ruthless Time ! 
’T is that thou tam’st the spirits, check’st the play 
Of youthful fancy, turn’st our matin lay 
To dirge-like music, changest hopes to fears, 
And for one smile call’st forth uncounted tears. 
Season of bliss ! return, return once more, 
When, yet untaught in sorrow’s darkling lore, 
The heart, all sunshine, with its own sweet light 
Tinges whate’er arrests the wondering sight, 
