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ES IST NICHT WEIT HER!
THE flowers that spring beneath our feet
We never heed,
In vain they scatter fragrance sweet,
In vain they plead.
The lilies fair we thoughtless press,
And roses red, -
O'erlook the teeming loveliness
Around us spread.
But round the silver stars that shine
Resplendent in the sky, there clings
The witchery of far-off things,
For them we yearn, - for them we pine.
A. L. H.
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