The Bush Lover by Leon Gellert

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He lingers in the lazy grass
And talks of loneliness with trees,
The clouds pass, and the hours pass;
And far afield he hears the bees.

He sees the wistful moon arise;
He sits and stares, and clasps his knees.
The town cries and the crowd cries,
‘I’ll stay with theses, he says ‘and these.’

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