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That object of infinite value

Found as though discarded

The modesty of its hue

Betrays the gold beneath

I am as that which floats,

The freely drifting dandelion

Those that see, they fly.

Nearly crushed ‘neath our feet,

The solitary fragment of autumn survives

Though its breath has ceased

Signs and seals never to be forgotten

The passing years dare not alter her

And the spell remains unbroken.

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