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    To the Oaks of Glencree

    by J. M. Synge
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    My arms are round you, and I lean
    Against you, while the lark
    Sings over us, and golden lights, and green
    Shadows are on your bark.

    There'll come a season when you'll stretch
    Black boards to cover me;
    Then in Mount Jerome I will lie, poor wretch,
    With worms eternally.
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