  The common pavement dull and grey Is strewn with leafy wands to-day, And sceptres green to the curb’s edge— For they have cut the privet hedge. My Baby gathers, bending down, The branches swept by Mother’s gown And carries home into the house Those magical and royal boughs. But O the milky blossoms sweet That scented all the sunny street— Crushed by the Baby’s sandalled tread They lie behind her, brown and dead. |
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