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Have you ever been to
Charden,
Past the farm and down the
lane,
And peeped into the little
garden
With the swing and weather
vane?
There stands a tiny flint-stoned
cottage
With its creeper-covered
door,
Where fennel, parsley, mint
and borage
Cure the ills of sick and
poor,
And fallen petals from the
bowers,
Blossoms all of candy hue,
Fermented scents of fragrant
flowers,
Kiss the breath of evening
dew.
Silent breezes fan the
bulrush
As the gentle river crawls,
And the tune of distant song
thrush
Falls on honeysuckled walls.
Cress glistens in the
rippling water,
Crimson lilies float and sway
And bindweed, like a floral
halter,
Caresses hawthorn, elder,
may,
And as the last gold rays of
twilight
Raise the scent upon night
airs
You recognise that
nature’s highlight
Is the perfume that she
wears.
Back to village
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