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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2005-03-31 | [Ce texte devrait être lu en english] | Inscrit à la bibliotèque par x
When I got up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath, Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew, Half closes the garden path. And when I come to the garden ground, The whir of sober birds Up from the tangle of withered weeds Is sadder than any words. A tree beside the wall stands bare, But a leaf that lingered brown, Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought, Comes softly rattling down. I end not far from my going forth, By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you.
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