Here

by | Oct 21, 2016

This is not the end of all,
A last lonesome place.
There is another simple way,
Quiet with lesser light.
So, I beg you not fear fallen leaves,
Or weep in faded grass.
Near here there is a fair grove,
Grown fresh as ever bloomed.
It grows beside a worn path
Where winter comes as spring.
All along, bright flowers grow;
As birds sing in welcome song.
So, I ask you fair soul,
Onto this pathway come.

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