Very old are the woods
And the buds that break
Out of brier’s bough
When March winds wake
Oh, no man knows
Through what wild centuries
Roves back the rose
Our dreams are tales
Told in dim Eden
By Eve’s Nightingales
But, the day gone by
Silence and sleep like fields
Of amaranth lie
Very old are the brooks
And the rills that rise
Where snow sleeps cold beneath
The azure skies
Sing such a history
Of come and gone
Their every drop is as wise
As Solomon.

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