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4.3
Now the sun is sinking
In the golden West;
Birds and bees and children
All have gone to rest,
And the merry streamlet,
As it runs along, With a voice of sweetness
Sings its evening song.
Cowslip, daisy, violet, In their little beds,
All among the grasses,
Hide their heavy heads.
There they are, sweet darlings,
Sunk in happy dreams,
Till the rosy morning
Wakes them with its beams.
