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William Blake


Memory, hither come,

And tune your merry notes;

And, while upon the wind,

Your music floats,

I'll pore upon the stream,

Where sighing lovers dream,

And fish for fancies as they pass

Within the watery glass.

I'll drink of the clear stream,

And hear the linnet's song;

And there I'll lie and dream

The day along:

And, when night comes, I'll go

To places fit for woe;

Walking along the darken'd valley,

With silent Melancholy.