Buds spring up from branches,
That once, sharp-pointed and bitter,
Will come now to erode,
And soften in pooling blooms.
The sun will stretch its time,
And creatures, fluttring sleepy eyes,
Will crawl out of their homes,
In trust with the Tableau.
Others then awaken.
The dreamers will arise and sing:
Of passions, of visions.
They hope another sees.













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