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An apple orchard smells like wine;
A succory flower is blue;
Until Grief touched these eyes of mine,
Such things I never knew.
And now indeed I know so
Why one would like to
When spouts are full of April rain—Such lonely folk go by!
So wise, so wise—that my tears
Each breaking of the dawn;
That I do long to tell you all—But you are dead and gone.
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