The gardener in his old brown hands Turns over the brown earth, As if he loves and understands The flowers before their birth, The fragile childish little strands He buries in the earth. Like pious children one by one He sets them head by head, And draws the clothes when all is done, Closely about each head. And leaves his children to sleep on In the one quiet bed.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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