From the Dyke
Upon the meadow land rests now the noon.
No wing, track, shadow in the blue and green.
Smoke whitens in the sun, grows thin, and soon
no more is seen.
I have a whirlpool chiming in my ear;
perhaps the distant shepherd bells; and hark!
amidst the blue suspended, I can hear
carol of lark.
No wing, track, shadow in the blue and green.
Smoke whitens in the sun, grows thin, and soon
no more is seen.
I have a whirlpool chiming in my ear;
perhaps the distant shepherd bells; and hark!
amidst the blue suspended, I can hear
carol of lark.
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