See how the old man laughs at his labour
As he finds the foxglove, ripe,
Within the yet-green gardens’ mesh.
See how it bids its gardener to rest—
With noxious, toxic, bells that ring.
Surely this man governs his own lot.
See how the old man laughs at his labour
As he finds the foxglove, ripe,
Within the yet-green gardens’ mesh.
See how it bids its gardener to rest—
With noxious, toxic, bells that ring.
Surely this man governs his own lot.
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