HOLIDAYS
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rom fall to spring, the russet acorn,Fruit beloved of maid and boy,Lent itself beneath the forest,To be the children's toy. Pluck it now! In vain,--thou canst not;Its root has pierced yon shady mound;Toy no longer--it has duties;It is anchored in the ground. Year by year the rose-lipped maiden,Playfellow of young and old,Was frolic sunshine, dear to all men,More dear to one than mines of gold. Whither went the lovely hoyden?Disappeared in blessed wife;Servant to a wooden cradle,Living in a baby's life. Still thou playest;--short vacationFate grants each to stand aside;Now must thou be man and artist,--'T is the turning of the tide.
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