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August

By: Carry
Category:
August 27, 2021

I felt that Id a right to song
And sung – but in a timid strain
Of fondness for my native plain
For every thing I felt a love,
The weeds below the birds above
And weeds that bloomed in summers hours
I thought they should be reckoned flowers
They made a garden free for all
And so I loved them great and small…

John Clare

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