  WHERE pleasures grow as thick as grass, And joys of silence, soft, profound, Are sweeter e’en than joys of sound, The long, long days of summer pass. I see them sitting in the sun, Or moving river-like between The climbing and down-bending green, I watch them vanish one by one, And strive to clasp them as they flee, But only hold their shadows fast— The summer shadows that they cast Upon the path of memory. |
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