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The Lover
DSS (1866-1918 / Ireland)

The Lover

He walks like one enchanted,
Whose soul is held in thrall,
By some sweet presence haunted
Who passed unseen by all.
He speaks as half-forgetting
The hearers that are by,
He sighs as though regretting
Some dear and soft reply.
It is a lover's rapture,
Naught doth he see or hear,
His heart is held in capture
Unto some mistress dear.

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