The Garden of Proserpine
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Here, where the world is quiet ; |
Here, where all trouble seems |
Dead winds’ and spent waves’ riot |
In doubtful dreams of dreams ; |
I watch the green field growing |
For reaping folk and sowing, |
For harvest-time and mowing, |
A sleepy world of streams.
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I am tired of tears and laughter, |
And men that laugh and weep ; |
Of what may come hereafter |
For men that sow to reap : |
I am weary of days and hours, |
Blown buds of barren flowers, |
Desires and dreams and powers |
And everything but sleep.
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