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OPTIMISM In winter, when the trees are bare, And frost flies in the bitter air, He hears the echoes, far away, of songs the birds will sing in May; To him is borne, in wintry hours, the redolence of sleeping flowers - The optimist. |
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OPTIMISM In winter, when the trees are bare, And frost flies in the bitter air, He hears the echoes, far away, of songs the birds will sing in May; To him is borne, in wintry hours, the redolence of sleeping flowers - The optimist. |
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