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Frost upon the gate of winter’s day,
Smelt to dewdrops by one spring’s ray.

O waves of squashed berries’ juices,
Bringing such floods both sweet and yet sour
To nostrils and tongue, you excite.

Only to be fleeting,
Gone as gossamer webs upon dead bushes,
Blown by the wind
To infinity...

Flame of summer’s rising passions
Overcome, doused by autumn’s sea of falling souls.

O whims of heaven’s fancy,
Spirit away mine too weak heart!