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When the sun is sinking low in the skies,
The evening primrose opens her eyes.
"Come back, dear Sun," she seems to say;
"I've been dreaming of you the live-long day."
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Ho, Dandelion! my lightsome fellow!
What's become of all your yellow?
"My bonnie yellow it wouldn't stay,
It turned about and it went away,
Till nothing at all was left of me
But the misty, feathery ball you see;
Yet pluck me off, and blow me well,
The time o' day I'll surely tell."
Whiff! whiff! "Blow again,—
Blow with all your might and main."
Whiff! whiff! That is four.
Now I've but two feathers more.
Whiff! How tight the last one sticks!
Whiff! It's gone; and that makes six.
The sun is getting low, I see,
And we must hurry home to tea.
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