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Poem by Charlotte Mew
Who thinks of June's first rose today? Only some child, perhaps, with shining eyes and rough bright hair will reach it down. In a green sunny lane, to us almost as far away As are the fearless stars from these veiled lamps of town. What's little June to a great broken world with eyes gone dim From too much looking on the face of grief, the face of dread? Or what's the broken world to June and him Of the small eager hand, the shining eyes, the rough bright head?
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