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--chosen-work--
Start-1
There is brown on the lilac
its promise is spent
the sweet dreams of springtime
with summer relent
now all the young startlings are leaving their home
and late-nesting goldfinches
Since first you fired
the arrows of your glance
even in fields and woods blue-hazed
in chill of early morning
the fondest memories are of times
we did not dare to chance