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Sunset dreams on fir-tree cones, Green—the hedge, and brown—the field; Mossy rifts in weathered stones Meekly vernal waters yield.

Oh, look up the wooded steep— God has touched it with his palm; Piously wild berries weep, Listening to the grassy psalm.

And I feel no fleshly tie; And my heart's a springing mead. Come, ye pilgrims white and shy, Peck the early wheaten seed.

Tender evening twilight searches Cottage windows, gabled byres, And the leaves of slender birches Glimmer soft as wedding fires.