the son living in out
A thread is in my fond mother's hand moving.
For her son to wear the clothes ere leaving.
With her whole heart she's sewing and sewing.
For fear I'll e'er be roving and roving.
Who says the little soul of grass waving.
Could for the warmth repay the sun of spring.
flower not a flower
Call it flower - 'tis not a flower;
Call it foggy mist - 'tis none such either.
It comes in the dead of the night
And takes flight the moment dawn alights;
It stays no longer than a dream in spring,
Departs like the fleeting early morning clouds -
And is seen no more.
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