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There is a place (believe me,
she said) where if, if
you go beyond
the street lights, to the lane's end,
Spring is baby,bright, fresh and new,gurgling with the melting snow,singing with the first cuckoo.
We don' have a Springtime like some folkWho live in dem colder place,but we have a time when de soft rain come,an' tease open de seedcase