  Under the pines, on a summer’s day, I list to a whisper from far away, And, lying low, with my half-closed eyes, Behold the beauty of fairer skies. Some say ’tis the sound of the sighing sea, Whose distant murmer steals over me; Some say ’tis the baby breeze instead, That rocks in the branches overhead; But I know it is neither wave nor breeze, On shining sands and in leafy trees; ’Tis the music sweet of a voice divine, That whispers peace to each pensive pine. |
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