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    by Edith Nesbit
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    What do the roses do, mother,
    Now that the summer's done?
    They lie in the bed that is hung with red
    And dream about the sun.

    What do the lilies do, mother,
    Now that there's no more June?
    Each one lies down in her white nightgown
    And dreams about the moon.

    What can I dream of, mother,
    With the moon and the sun away?
    Of a rose unborn, of an untried thorn,
    And a lily that lives a day!
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