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LEAVES
On the dry brown bough
The withered leaves still cling
In their last desperate hold
And ceaseless murmuring.
They push the swinging branch
To beat upon the pane;
"Save us," they whispering cry—
“We shall not live again!"
She laughs in pretty play,
The child beside my chair,
“Look at the linden tree!
The leaves are dancing there.
"Are swaying on the branch,
Are singing in their glee;
The little song I hear
Is, 'I am glad to be.'"
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