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FREE forest bird, beat the wild wing,
Fly north and south the whole day through,
To north, to south, fly wavering,
On every side the skies are blue.
Fly north and south through all the day,
Fly westward when the skies are red,
Perch thee upon the topmost spray
Of the blush-rose in its mossy bed.
Sing to my love thy tenderest song,
(Each evening she bends o'er the tree
I set and she has watched so long),
And see, sweet bird, thou sing of me.
But roses die, and memory
May call to sleeping love in vain;
What if the rose should bloom and die
Before I seek my love again?
And would my love for ever sigh,
Or would she learn a lighter strain?
What if the tree's last bloom should die
And I not seek my love again?
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