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 Each day a leaf falls withered from the tree

Whose leaves make up the life of thee and me,

The leaves are counted and the last is there—

Ready to fall before thy destiny.

I pray you, gentle Saki, of your grace,

Carry the wine-jar to some pleasant place,

Where, in a green and rose-hung sanctuary,

I'll gaze all day on my beloved's face.

For spring is here, with all his ancient fires,

Quick with old dreams, and thrilled with new desires;

Vowed to repent, yet sure to sin again—

O leave repentance to your withered sires!

O listen, love, how all the builders sing!

O sap! O song! O green world blossoming!

White as the hand of Moses blooms the thorn,

Sweet as the breath of Jesus comes the spring.