Let me go now, now that from grown alders leaves Have torn loose, and go flying close to the sand Along the black river-water. White rye-grass bends Under the wind, under the sky, toward water Where the pheasants feed, hiding; and the few willows, With dark alder leaves caught in them, join and part. I have not seen them for so long I see dark mouths Black with juice of berries, and I remember the children Who ran shaking the tall rye-grass. So they run And scatter as if caught in the wind, gathering The last beach fruit, late ripening, which they can save.
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