Monday, June 15, 2009


"The evening comes, the fields are still,
The tinkle of the thirsty rill
Unheard all day ascends again,
Deserted is the half-mown plain,
Silent the swathes! the ringing wain,
All housed within the sleeping farms!
The business of the day is done,
the last-left hay-maker is gone,
And from the thyme upon the height,
And from the elder-blossom white
and pail dog-roses in the hedge,
And from the mint plant in the sedge,
In puffs of balm the night-air blow
The perfume which the day fore-goes,
and on the

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