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Old Order Mennonite Memoirs

"The sun moves westward out of sight; Its warmth remains to greet the night

When sounds of crickets fill the air and fireflies venture from each lair

To fascinate in unseen flight Those who watch their twinkling light.

And from the south a gentle breeze Ruffles the leaves of maple trees

That try to shade the moon's rich glow As it reflects the porch below,

And folks are reluctant to leave Enchantments of a summer's eve."

Often poetry doesn't fit exactly, doesn't always say what I want it to say. It may be just a line or so that doesn't fit for our Pennsylvania season, but the above lines...


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