Mark, Annie Hetherington
A plain wood fence without a trace
On mornings very far away,
I loved a morning-glory spray;
A garden comes my eyes before
With old grey fences purpled o'er.
The texture of our childish dreams
Is woven in with flowers, it seems,
And they remain joys to behold
In later years when we are old.
When morning-glory trims a fence
With purple petals, gaily dense,
My heart makes happy holiday
Because I chanced to pass that way.
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