PART FOUR
(1)
He leans against the window-sill:
The dusk has drizzled down to rose.
Delicious damps and odors fill
The musings of his thoughtful nose.
The soft wind slides seductive touch
Along the shoulders of the oak.
My dear, I love you, dear, so much—
He cannot think of whom he spoke.
(2)
The white of her Colonial
Showed patterns of a tranquil wall
Through lattices of apple trees,
And softly her serenities
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