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THE long low sunbeams eastward fall,
Long yellow glories lie
Between the trees, on the ivied wall,
On the brooklet singing by.
The brook is singing low to me -
You cannot hear what it says -
Its voice is rich and glad with the glee,
With the love of happy days.
Ah! the shadows have dimmed its glow!
Yet still it sings to me
Of joy and love that were long ago,
And joy and love that shall be.
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