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 Anemones, they say, are out
By sheltered woodland streams,
With budding branches all about
Where Spring-time sunshine gleams;

Such are the haunts they love, but I
With swift remembrance see
Anemones beneath a sky
Of cold austerity—

Pale flowers too faint for winds so chill
And with too fair a name—
That day I lingered on a hill
For one who never came.