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The Garden Party

After all the laughter, the Grass is crushed; the hours of Choreography in spiked sandals Have left their stamp. The dance Of the afternoon is quickly Forgotten in the gray quiet Into which the day has faded. Only the props of the party Remain. The cafe tables Invite us while the hammock touches The forsythia bush and the scattered Glasses remind us of our thirst. The excitement lies quiet now As the moments shade into Disappearing layers of green. We survey the garden, as gardeners Proud of our wor k of an afternoon. The end and the beginning of our tasks Seem richly joined in the deserted Cambridge streets.

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