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Show ATJTTJM3T. Summer to me is fairest In her death. When thick the leaves fall on nsr quiet No more she laughs with triumph In her breath. Her spirit sighs in evsry wooded place. No more her sunshine mocks my twl light way, . . ... The heavy rose Is withered at her breast, Her songs are sung. Their echoes die Too7a' too faint to wake ths old un-rrat. un-rrat. Summer and I are sisters now at last. We have lived golden Cays and seen them die. Now all tha old, sad hopes are dreamed - and cast, ' -We may fold hands for sleeping, she "and I. Yet only half can summer share my sorrow. sor-row. I have her yesterday but not her morrow. mor-row. Alice Herbert, "Between the Light" |