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Maurice Thompson

American novelist


  • When Spring is old, and dewy winds
    Blow from the south, with odors sweet,
    I see my love, in shadowy groves,
    Speed down dark aisles on shining feet.
    • Atalanta’s Race.
  • She throws a kiss, and bids me run
    In whispers sweet as roses’ breath;
    I know I can not win the race,
    And at the end, I know, is death.
    • Atalanta’s Race.
  • Bubble, bubble, flows the stream
    Like an old tune through a dream.
    • In Haunts of Bass and Bream.

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