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The arc of the moon, in waning,
Is smooth as her upward swing; Autumn and quiet winter Flow gently down from spring; Music that swells crescendo Till stars to far stars call, Slips with a throb of beauty Into its dying fall; Roses are calm through cycles Of petal and petal-dust: But men grow old resentfully, And only because they must. |
Seesaw
May Williams Ward
page 17
(Atlanta: The Bozart Press. 1929)
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