  TO-day the green hill was at strife With me; it robbed my feet of life. The wind that loudly speaks his mind, Said in my presence nothing kind. The sky’s clear face was from me turned, Behind a cloud his great fire burned. An exile in his native cot, Who finds his very name forgot, Was I this afternoon, until At the wood’s edge behind the hill, A chipmunk flashed, and leapt a limb, And took my heart away with him. |
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