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As on one walking in the graves by night
The glad May morning comes at unawares
And the young day, with all its frolic airs
And throstles' song and scent and flower-delight,

Brims up his darkling soul with life and light,
So, in our time, when vain Tchaikowsky tears
Our still-vexed ears and dreary Dvorak shares
With Brahms and Sullivan the dullard might,

Haydn, thine unsophisticaated strain,
Wherein the fields flower and the small birds sing,
Our saddened souls to life and love again

Restores and sets our laggard thought a-wing
To where May-memories fill the heart's inane
With all the happy auspices of Spring.

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