SUMMERTIME 
The sun has drunk 
The dew that lay upon the morning grass; 
There is no rustling in the lofty elm 
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade 
Scarce cools me. All is silent save the faint 
And interrupted murmur of the bee, 
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again 
Instantly on the wing. 
Brya 
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