WHERE THE PICNIC WAS
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HERE we made the fire,In the summer time,Of branch and briarOn the hill to the seaI slowly climbThrough winter mire,And scan and traceThe forsaken placeQuite readily. Now a cold wind blows,And the grass is gray,But the spot still showsAs a burnt circle—aye,And stick-ends, charred,Still strew the swardWhereon I stand,Last relic of the bandWho came that day! Yes, I am hereJust as last year,And the sea breathes brineFrom its strange straight lineUp hither, the sameAs when we four came.—But two have wandered farFrom this grassy riseInto urban roarWhere no picnics are,And one—has shut her eyesFor evermore.
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