Who knows the things they dream, alas! Or feel, who lie beneath the ground? Perhaps the flowers, the leaves, and grass That close them round. In spring the violets may spell The moods of them we know not of; Or lilies sweetly syllable Their thoughts of love. Haply, in summer, dew and scent Of all they feel may be a part; Each red rose be the testament Of some rich heart. The winds of fall be utterance, Perhaps, of saddest things they say; Wild leaves may word some dead romance In some dim way. In winter all their sleep profound Through frost may speak to grass and stream; The snow may be the silent sound Of all they dream.
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