Ode a la Primavera

Ah, Spring, I do not know how. You let all become plated with gold, yet (instead) feign a sheet of green. I could relax and ponder through fall's decay (-I'll be stuck, anyway), grow sad and weary at winter's death (equal, all leaves lay); though however vivid summer be, it'll never catch me: for Spring both splendor and purity has, and I'll have left for it long before -so I must start now, go, else summer might take me, and the sky is so blue.


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