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And, loving still, these quaint old themes,
Even in the city's throng, I feel the freshness of the streams That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, Water the green land of dreams,
The holy land of song.
— Henry Wadsvoorth Longfellow |
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The snow-drop, and then the violet, Arose from the ground with warm rain wet; And their breath was mixed with fresh odor, sent From the turf, — like the voice and the instrument.
— Percy Bysshe Shelley. |
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Song should breathe of scents and flowers !
Song should like a river flow! Song should bring back scenes and hours
That we loved — ah, long ago I
— Bryan Waller Procter. |
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I hear the blackbird in the corn,
The locust in the haying; And, like the fabled hunter's horn,
Old tunes my heart is playing.
— John Oreenleaf Whittier. |
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