The Tree of Scarlet Berries
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he rain gullies the garden pathsAnd tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades.A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist.Even so, I can see that it has red berries,A scarlet fruit,Filmed over with moisture.It seems as though the rain,Dripping from it,Should be tinged with colour.I desire the berries,But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns.Probably, too, they are bitter.
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