  THE wind blows down the dusty street; And through my soul that grieves It brings a sudden odour sweet, A smell of poplar leaves. O leaves that herald in the spring, O freshness young and pure, Into my weary soul you bring The vigour to endure. The wood is near but out of sight, Where all the poplars grow; Straight up and tall and silver white, They quiver in a row. My love is out of sight, but near; And through my soul that grieves A sudden memory wafts her here As fresh as poplar leaves. |
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