I KNOW a place where summer strives |
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With such a practised frost, |
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She each year leads her daisies back, |
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Recording briefly, “Lost.” |
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But when the south wind stirs the pools |
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And struggles in the lanes, |
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Her heart misgives her for her vow, |
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And she pours soft refrains |
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Into the lap of adamant, |
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And spices, and the dew, |
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That stiffens quietly to quartz, |
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Upon her amber shoe. |