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Poem	Young and kindly spring who clothes our garden with beauty makes lucid our voices and words, and steeps them in his limpidity. The breeze and the lips of the leaves babble, and slowly shed in us the syllables of their brightness. But the best in us turns away and flees material words; a mute and mild and simple rapture, better than all speech, moors our happiness to its true heaven: The rapture of your soul, kneeling in all simplicity before mine, and of my soul, kneeling in gentleness before yours.
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