She sits in the sun
With her face to the rays
Just breathing in the light
Of the morning of the days
These days seem to come and go
So fast I can hardly tell
Whether I was built to last
In a world of blue bells
Each has its short season arising in the wood
Gathered on the hillside
by the lovers of the good
Each is a kind of hologram
For the state of being blessed
Each a holy program
Of songs I love the best
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