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    Le Jardin Des Tuileries

    by Oscar Wilde
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    This winter air is keen and cold,
    And keen and cold this winter sun,
    But round my chair the children run
    Like little things of dancing gold.

    Sometimes about the painted kiosk
    The mimic soldiers strut and stride,
    Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide
    In the bleak tangles of the bosk.

    And sometimes, while the old nurse cons
    Her book, they steal across the square,
    And launch their paper navies where
    Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze.

    And now in mimic flight they flee,
    And now they rush, a boisterous band--
    And, tiny hand on tiny hand,
    Climb up the black and leafless tree.

    Ah! cruel tree! if I were you,
    And children climbed me, for their sake
    Though it be winter I would break
    Into spring blossoms white and blue!
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