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    by Edgar Allan Poe
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    Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
    With drowsy head and folded wing,
    Among the green leaves as they shake
    Far down within some shadowy lake,
    To me a painted paroquet
    Hath been--a most familiar bird--
    Taught me my alphabet to say--
    To lisp my very earliest word
    While in the wild wood I did lie,
    A child--with a most knowing eye.

    Of late, eternal Condor years
    So shake the very Heaven on high
    With tumult as they thunder by,
    I have no time for idle cares
    Though gazing on the unquiet sky.
    And when an hour with calmer wings
    Its down upon my spirit flings--
    That little time with lyre and rhyme
    To while away--forbidden things!
    My heart would feel to be a crime
    Unless it trembled with the strings.

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