_With a weak, uncertain wing And a short flight, faltering Like a heart afraid to sing._ _Seasons that pass me by in varied mood, As on the impressionable land you leave a trace, Molding sometime a delicate flower’s sweet face, Touching again with green the somber wood, Or drawing all beneath a snowy hood,-- Am I not worthy as they to have a place In your remembrance? Am I made too base To know what weed and thorn have understood?_…
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