Rampolli - A Year's Diary of an Old Soul

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XLV.

In the sunny summer morning

  Into the garden I come; The flowers are whispering and talking,

  But for me, I wander dumb.

The flowers are whispering and talking;

  They pity my look so wan: "Thou must not be cross with our sister,

  Thou sorrowful, pale-faced man!"

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