WE mark the playing-time of sun and rain, Until the rain too heavily upon us Leans, and the sun stamps down upon our lustres, And then our trees stand in their greennesses No different from the privets in the hedges, And we who made a pleasaunce at the door-step, And, whether by the ash-heap or the spring-well Growing, were ever fresh and ever radiant, And fragrant more than grass is We, we are gone without a word that praised us You did not know how short the playing-time!SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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