MID-DAY
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he light beats upon me.I am startled--a split leaf crackles on the paved floor--I am anguished--defeated. A slight wind shakes the seed-pods--my thoughts are spentas the black seeds.My thoughts tear me,I dread their fever.I am scattered in its whirl.I am scattered likethe hot shrivelled seeds. The shrivelled seedsare spilt on the path--the grass bends with dust,the grape slipsunder its crackled leaf:yet far beyond the spent seed-pods,and the blackened stalks of mint,the poplar is bright on the hill,the poplar spreads out,deep-rooted among trees. O poplar, you are greatamong the hill-stones,while I perish on the pathamong the crevices of the rocks.
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