Apologia.Here in my book there will be foundNo gleanings front a foreign ground:The quiet thoughts of one whose feetHave scarcely left her green retreat;A little dew, a little scent,A little measure of content,A robin's song perchance to stirSome heart-untravelled traveller.A low horizon hems me in,Low hills with fields of gold between,Woods that are waving, veiled with greyA little river far away,Birds on the boughs, and on the swardDaisies that dancing praise the Lord.
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