  When winter turns to spring, Birds that were songless make their songs resound, Flow'rs that were flow'rless cover all the ground; Yet 'tis no perfect thing:— I cannot walk, so tangled is each hill; So thick the herbs I cannot pluck my fill. But in the autumn-tide I cull the scarlet leaves and love them dear, And let the green leaves stay, with many a tear, All on the fair hill-side:— No time so sweet as that. Away! Away! Autumn's the time I fain would keep alway. Ohogimi. |
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