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The Book of Odes, by L. Cranmer-Byng, [1908], at

p. 40


The winds blow soft from the East,
But the storm welters by.
In the day of disaster and fear,
It was all you and I.
In the hour of your pride
You have cast me aside.

The bland winds blown from the East
Tornadoes pursue.
In the hour of disaster and fear
More than brother were you.
In the hour of delight
I am cast from your sight.

The winds come fair from the East
On the hills overhead
There is never a blade that is green,
Not a leaf but is dead.
My worth you forget,
But my faults linger yet.

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