What the sun sends is supposed to reveal,
To nurture in nature when night flees away,
Growing the green things to greater extents,
Whence feast we upon them at will.
Putting the plants in pots by the windows
Should let them leaf out, luscious and full,
But brilliant light beats upon all things here,
Burns at the boughs and bleaches their colors,
And the plants I would put to some purpose or other
Wither and die in their pots.
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