Dreams Of Youth
A
Andrew Blakemore
0
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When youth and I walked hand in hand
My mind a well of dreams,
As clear as skies without a cloud
As pure as mountain streams.
They shone like April blossoms
And they warmed me like the morn,
They sparkled like the summer dew
And ripened like the corn.
They drifted like an autumn mist
Then fell like leaves of gold,
When winter came they all were lost
As dreams of youth grew old.
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