Only page of title Moderate
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_For May is here once more, and so is he,-_
_His dusty trousers, rolled half to the knee,_
_And his bare ankles grimy, too, as they: _
_Cross-hatchings of the nettle, in array_
_Of feverish stripes, hint vividly to me_
_Of woody pathways winding endlessly_
_Along the creek, where even yesterday_
_He plunged his shrinking body-gasped and shook-_
_Yet called the water "warm," with never lack_
_Of joy. And so, half enviously I look_
_Upon this graceless barefoot and his track,-_
_His toe stubbed-ay, his big toe-nail knocked back_
_Like unto the clasp of an old pocket-book._
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