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The Late SingerHere it is spring againand I still a young man!I am late at my singing.The sparrow with the black rain on his breasthas been at his cadenzas for two weeks past:What is it that is dragging at my heart?The grass by the back dooris stiff with sap.The old maples are openingtheir branches of brown and yellow moth-flowers.A moon hangs in the bluein the early afternoons over the marshes.I am late at my singing.
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