<SPAN name="IX"></SPAN>IX<br/>
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The youthful spring with wondrous might<br/>
Bursts out in all its clarity<br/>
Upon our wistful words and sight,<br/>
And bathes them deep in purity.<br/>
The wind and the slender lips of the flowers,<br/>
Trembling, scatter abroad in showers<br/>
Their syllables of light.<br/>
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But the soul of us will not be caught<br/>
Within the chains that language wrought;<br/>
One simple flight of spirit doth enshrine,<br/>
Better than word or fitful thought,<br/>
Our joy in its abiding place divine,—<br/>
That heaven of thine wherein thy soul<br/>
Kneels gently down to mine,<br/>
And that where wistfully my soul<br/>
Kneels humbly there to thine.<br/>
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