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Through fields of rustling corn it came
 * And acres broad of bearded wheat,

Past hillsides clad with evergreen
 * And orchards sweet.

It rifled scent from clover fields
 * Where harvesters have been at work,

And ruffled little running brooks
 * Where mosses lurk.

It bears the note of piping frogs,
 * The stir of tender, untried wings—

Of lowing kine, and homely sounds
 * Of barnyard things.

O barren Land! what dost thou dream
 * Beneath these surging winds that bear

The echoes of a life which thou
 * Canst never share?

Dost thou not long to break thy calm—
 * To know that living, sweet unrest?

And feel the tread of busy feet
 * Upon thy breast?