Twixt seventeen and
wintergreen,
and where one scarce conceives,
there lies a land I’ve often
seen,
where gentle magic weaves;
and having once beheld the
scene,
one never fully leaves.
A way to get there can be found
by anyone who looks.
The paths are many and abound
in myriad happy nooks
that frequent readers see all
round,
throughout their favorite
books.
Copyright ©2019, Paul H. Harder II
This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons
BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.
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