Seite 10 - ArtBook

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Up here, with June, the sycamore throws
Across thewindowawhispering screen;
I shall miss the sycamoremore I suppose,
Than anything else on this earth that is out in green.
But Imean to go through the door without fear,
Not caringmuchwhat happens here
When I’maway:
Howgreen the screen is across the panes
Or who goes laughing along the lanes
Withmy old lover all the summer day.