  I do not sing for youth and love, For passion and desire, I only sing because the sun Is gold like shining fire; I only sing because the day Is blue, the grass is green, The birds are singing out their hearts, The waking twigs between! Because the chestnut branch is tipped With buds of folded brown, Because the snowdrops look so white, The catkins feather down, Because the naked elms have bent To whisper me this thing— The sap is stirring in their limbs— How can I choose, but sing! |
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