The Lily of the Valley by Thomas Gordon Hake

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I: There was a wood, it does not change, / Not while the thrush pipes through its glades, / And she who did its thickets range / Has willed her sunbeam to its shades. / There still the lily weaves a net / With bluebell, primrose, violet.

II: The wood is what it was of old, / A timber-farm where wildflowers grow. / There woodman's axe is never cold, / That lays the oaks and beeches low. / But though the hand of man deface, / The lily ever grows in grace.

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