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Some
future spring when I, no longer young,
Wake to a note a lark in rapture trills,
Shall I, before another song is sung,
Feel drawn to walk again the greening hills?
Will streams of lupine ripple down the slope,
Cooling my feet grown weary then and old?
Shall poppy flames still light my heart with hope
And fill my eager arms with April gold?
O can there
be such lilting joy as now?
I asked myself this question wondering;
Until this morning came to show me how
I shall meet April in some future spring.
It said "youth is bright word, age a name,
But spring time and heart remain the same."
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