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The Trailing Arbutus
By E. SUTTON
BOON!" Hesperia cried, her hands. Stretched to the Powers apportioning The heritage of all the lands.
"A fragrance for my crown of spring! Far fairer is the jeweling
My sisters wreathe in scorn of snows
My colder sky at your behest.
Deep in the last year's leafage dun;
From isle to waking isle did run
White clusters, shyly flushed with pride
Sweetness that seems unplaced and wrong
Nor Eleusinian mysteries,
Dear fables, quaint diableries, The glamour of the elder world; Sweetness that therefore speaks of naught But of the lore each heart doth learn, A breath of spring, a quickening thought, Fires that from ashes wake and burn. So Aprils unto Aprils yearn Till, drooping down from less to less,
Life doth to dreams and fables turn, And fables to forgetfulness.
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