In This Wood
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In this wood, great trees have grown
Deep in seats of sand and stone,
steeped in creeks of Pan's cologne,
each his sweeping brother's clone
From the score of seeds I've sown
in this wood, great trees have grown
And of glories father's own,
none's seen more than those I've known
Alto dins of summer flown,
fall begins her tenor moan
In this wood, great trees have grown
tall with winter's baritone
Life bestows no chaperone,
each must toe his line alone
At it's close, let mine have shown,
in this wood, great trees have grown
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Copyright © Lycia Harding | Year Posted 2018
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