A wind sways the pines
And below
Not a breath of wild air;
Still as the mosses that glow
On the flooring and over the lines
Of the roots here and there
The pine-tree drops its dead;
They are quiet, as under the sea
Overhead, overhead
Rushes life in a race
As the clouds the clouds chase;
And we go
And we drop like the fruits of the tree
Even we
Even so
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