The Green Bowl
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his little bowl is like a mossy poolIn a Spring wood, where dogtooth violets growNodding in chequered sunshine of the trees;A quiet place, still, with the sound of birds,Where, though unseen, is heard the endless songAnd murmur of the never resting sea.'T was winter, Roger, when you made this cup,But coming Spring guided your eager handAnd round the edge you fashioned young green leaves,A proper chalice made to hold the shyAnd little flowers of the woods. And hereThey will forget their sad uprooting, lostIn pleasure that this circle of bright leavesShould be their setting; once more they will dreamThey hear winds wandering through lofty treesAnd see the sun smiling between the leaves.
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