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A YEAR.


In the Spring we see:
Then the buds are dear to us—immature bosoms like lilies swell.
In the Summer we live:
When bright eyes are near to us, oh, the sweet stories the false lips tell!
In the Autumn we love:
When the honey is dripping, deep eyes moisten and soft breasts heave;
In the Winter we think:
With the sands fast slipping, we smile and sigh for the days we leave.