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|A Comparison in a Seaside Field|
’Tis royal and authentic June|
Over this poor soil blossoming;
Here lies, beneath an upright noon,
Thin nation for so wild a king.
Far off, the noble Summer rules,|
Violent in the ardent rose,
His sun alight in mirroring pools,
Braggart on Alps of vanquished snows;
Away, aloft, true to his hour,|
Announced, his colour, his fire, his jest.
But here, in negligible flower,
Summer is not proclaimed:confessed.
A woman I marked; for her no state,|
Small joy, no song. She had her boon,
Her only youth, true to its date,
Faintly perceptible, her June.
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Lane Core Jr. (email@example.com)
Created April 14, 2001; not revised.