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Clapping her hands, she spies above Rich elms, the turrets grey and old,— But love of home was only love When to her darling brother told. Thus ever to his soul replies The infant passion of her eyes.
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Clapping her hands, she spies above Rich elms, the turrets grey and old,— But love of home was only love When to her darling brother told. Thus ever to his soul replies The infant passion of her eyes.
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