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Ojalá
by George Eliot
Spring comes hither,
Buds the rose;
Roses wither,
Sweet spring goes.
Ojalá, would she carry me!
Summer soars,
White-winged day
White light pours,
Flies away.
Ojalá, would he carry me!
Soft winds blow,
Westward born,
Onward go
Toward the morn.
Ojalá, would they carry me!
Sweet birds sing
O’er the graves,
Then take wing
O’er the waves.
Ojalá, would they carry me!
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