I think to-night I could bear it all,
Even the arrow that cleft the core,
Could I wait again for your swift footfall,
And your sunny face coming in at the door. ...
Browning, old fellow,
Your leaves grow yellow,
Beginning to mellow
As seasons pass.
Your cover is wrinkled,
And stained and sprinkled,
And warped and crinkled
From sleep on the grass.
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