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VII
My eyes are level with the grass,
And up and down each slender steep
I watch its tiny people pass.
The sun has lulled me half asleep.
And up and down each slender steep
I watch its tiny people pass.
The sun has lulled me half asleep.
And all beneath my breath I sing . . .
This joy of mine is sweet to hold!
Such treasure had the miser king
Who brushed the very dew to gold.
This joy of mine is sweet to hold!
Such treasure had the miser king
Who brushed the very dew to gold.
Deep in the sunny grass I lie
And breathe the garden scents wind-driven,
So happy that if I should die
They could not comfort me with Heaven.
And breathe the garden scents wind-driven,
So happy that if I should die
They could not comfort me with Heaven.
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