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"SUMER IS ICUMEN IN"
"SUMER IS ICUMEN IN"
The beautiful old simple songs
That make us laugh and cry,
That sing of dying loveliness
In words that cannot die:
Of how the singer's love was sweet
Or how she was unkind,
And how her lips were red that now
Are dust upon the wind:
Of how the fields were gold in May
With daffodils a-row,
And all the birds made holiday
Six hundred years ago:—
21
