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— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow"The swallow is come! The swallow is come! O, fair are the seasons, and light Are the days that she brings, With her dusky wings, And her bosom snowy white!"
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Dear, dead women, with such hair, too--what's become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms?
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Ah, yes, the sea is still and deep, All things within its bosom sleep! A single step, and all is o'er, A plunge, a bubble, and no more.
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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