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Thin little leaves of wood fern, ribbed and toothed Long curved sail needles of the green pitch pine, With common sandgra**, skirt the horizon line, And over these the incorruptible blue! Here let me gently lie and softly view All world asperities, lightly touched and smoothed As by his gracious hand, the great Bestower. What though the year be late? some colors run Yet through the dry, some links of melody Still let me be, by such, a**uaged and soothed And happier made, as when, our schoolday done, We hunted on from flower to frosty flower, Tattered and dim, the last red bu*terfly, Or the old gra**hopper mola**es-mouthed.