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Purple mountains—oh, purple and blue—
Rippling under the sky;
And against them, nearer and brighter,
The many-colored trees,
With tasseled boughs uplifted,
And flowery young leaves.
And before me, trailing down the slope,
The dogwood, like a snow-nymph,
Leads the filmy-robed Spring.


The old oak lets fall its crimson leaves—
Tiny fuzzy leaves,

Drooping, shivering,
Tender as a babe new-born.
The hard old oak,

Brother of the wind,

Friend of storms,
Shakes out young leaves like a thin pale veil
Of rose and mauve,
That shades the sun for him,
And fluttering, flickering,
Softens the breeze.

Is it a new, new world,
That rosy baby leaves—

So tender!—
Should droop from the brown old oak'?
A new, new world?


Spread them wide,
Lovely ladies,
Spread your skirts wide.
Pink and white—
Oh, fair and chaste!—
Flutter down the mountain,
Rest in the wood.
Gold and red fire—
Oh, eager and warm —
Gather in the hollows,
Shine in the shade.

Come in rings,
Come in crowds!
Storm the shy coverts
And the gloomy glades! - s
The sun will fish for you

Through the pine-tops;

The rain will jewel you

As you dance in the wind.


I hear a thousand thousand tremors
Of clear water -
Falling lacily in the sun.
I hear one, two—seven shivers
Of deep bells
Ringing under the sea.
I hear a chiming of soldiers in bright armor
Riding up a hill—
Oh, far away, far away!
I hear sweet words, silver words,
Musically clashing down
From the tune-locked lips of lovers
Up in Heaven.
I hear . . . . .
Is it you, brown bird?

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The mountain laurel moves in rosy cloud-drifts
Over the wood's brown floor.
Cumulous masses,


Tipped with crimson,
Foam up from the dark green leaves.
More and more, -
Like the sweep of bright spoil over the blue
When the storm has gone,
They move over and under
The sunshine and shadow,
Capturing the new-blown Summer
As she walks in the wood.


My porch stands high,
And between the floor and the roof the apple-tree
Shoots in its green branches.

The blossoms are gone,

But silver sunlight dapples the leaves,
And little apples are rounding in the shadows.
Below me in the garden
Young shoots make green lines in the tawny soil.
Little peach-trees border it,
With three dark pines behind them.

And beyond, blue and green through the new-washed air,
Curves upward the crest of a hill
Against the pale blue sky.

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