Mr. William H. Crane -
Dear David Harum, your quaint wisdom comes
Fresh from the land we love to call our own.
It is the bird that sings, the bee that hums,
The wind that blows across a grove o'ergrown;
In him who voices you, you live again,
We know not which is Harum, —
Which is Crane!
Fresh from the land we love to call our own.
It is the bird that sings, the bee that hums,
The wind that blows across a grove o'ergrown;
In him who voices you, you live again,
We know not which is Harum, —
Which is Crane!
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