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ONE DAY
THE levels where the trail began Were sown with silver-grey. We bruised the leaves with hurrying feet To wafts of strong and tarry sweet, A moment's pleasure as we ran, Forgotten on our way.
Above, along the farthest crest, In every brief and breathless rest The spice of sage was ours, Crushed from the dull and slender leaves—The tiny yellow flowers, When day was done No more remembered than the wind and sun.
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