Under the roof in the valley yonder
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Lies the head all made of wonder,
For why should she wake, when the dawn scarce stirs,
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With her star-crowned head still asleep as hers;
And only the birds and I are awake,
O teach me a song, you morning bird,
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For me to take back to her, word for word,
To sing as she lifts each mighty lid,
Heavy with sleep as a pyramid:
Put into the song all the love of my heart—
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A man's love, with a wild bird's art.