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sweet it is 'neath apple-blooms to lie,

And breathe their breath!

To peep through waving branches at the sky,

To feel the zephyrs as they idle by,

And question of the brooklet what it saith!

How sweet it is to roam through the green wold

When labors cease!

To hear the tranquil tale by Nature told—

The tale that was not young, and grows not old—

To find within the heart an answering peace!