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Child of the Year! that round dost run Thy pleasant course,—when day's begun As ready to salute the sun
* His muse.
Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,
Yet seeming still to hover ; There! where the flutter of his wings Upon his back and body flings Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
That cover him all over.
* See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours formerly paid to this flower.