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As if a war waging
Its caverns and rocks among;

Rising and leaping,

Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,

Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,

Around and around
With endless rebound;

Smiting and fighting,

A sight to de ight in;

Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.

And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning;
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hurrying and skurrying.
And thundering and floundering;

Collecting, projecting,
Receding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and going,
And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dinning and spinning,

Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And falling and brawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,

And clattering and battering and shattering;
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
And thumping and plumping and bumping and jump-

ing, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,And this way the water comes down at Lodo:e.

- Robert Southey,

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The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow;

The cooling dews are falling:
The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,
The pigs come grunting to his feet,
The whinnying mare her master knows,
When into the yard the farmer goes,

His cattle calling

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co’!"
While still the cow-boy, far away,
Goes seeking those who have gone astray-

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"
Now to her task the milkmaid goes;
The cattle come crowding through the gate,
Lowing, pushing, little and great;
About the trough, by the farm-yard pump,
The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump,

While the pleasant dews are falling:
The new milch heifer is quick and shy,
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye;
And the white stream into the bright pail flows,
When to her task the milkmaid goes

Soothingly calling

“So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!" The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool,

Saying, “So, so, boss! so, so!"
To supper at last the farmer goes:
The apples are pared, the paper is read,
The stories are told, then all to bed:
Without, the cricket's ceaseless song
Makes shrill the silence all night long:

The heavy dews are falling.
The housewife's hand has turned the lock;
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;
The household sinks to deep repose;
But still in sleep the farm-boy goes

Singing, calling

Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" And oft the milkmaid in her dreams Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, Murmuring, “So, boss! so!"

-J. T. Trowbridge.

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Shall bear to coasts that lie afar,
Where men shall wonder at the view,
And ask in what fair groves they grew;

And sojourners beyond the sea
Shall think of childhood's careless day
And long, long hours of summer play,

In the shade of the apple tree.

Each year shall give this apple tree
A broader flush of roseate bloom,
A deeper maze of verdurous gloom,
And loosen, when the frost clouds lower,
The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.

The years shall come and pass, but we
Shall hear no longer, where we lie,
The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh,

In the boughs of the apple tree.

Boughs where the thrush with crimson breast
Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest;

We plant, upon the sunny lea,
A shadow for the noontide hour,
A shelter from the summer's shower.
When we plant the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs
To load the May wind's restless wings,
When, from the orchard row he pours

Its fragrance through our open doors;

A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,

We plant with the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,
And redden in the August noon,
And drop, when gentle airs come by,
That fan the blue September sky,

While children come with cries of glee,
And seek them where the fragrant grass
Betrays their bed to those who pass,

At the foot of the apple tree.

And when, above this apple tree,
The winter stars are quivering bright,
And winds go howling through the night,
Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth,
Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth,

And guests in prouder homes shall see,
Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine

And golden orange of the line,
The fruit of the apple tree.

The fruitage of this apple tree
Winds and our flag of stripe and star

And time shall waste this apple tree!
O, when its aged branches throw
Thin shadows on the ground below,
Shall fraud and force and iron will
Oppress the weak and helpless still?

What shall the tasks of mercy be,
Amid the toils, the strises, the tears
Of those who live when length of years

Is wasting this apple tree?

“Who planted this old apple tree?"
The children of that distant day
Thus to some aged man shall say;
And, gazing on its mossy stem,
The gray-haired man shall answer them:

A poet of the land was he,
Born in the rude but good old times;
'T is said he made some quaint old rhymes
On planting the apple tree.”

- William Cullen Bryant.

The Mountains of Switzerland.

land, And I, lone sitting by the twilight blaze, Before its awful mountain-tops afraid

Think of another wanderer in the snows, Who yet, with patient toil, has gained his stand And on more perilous mountain-tops I gaze On the bare summit where all life is stayed

Than ever frowned above the vine and rose. Sees far, far down beneath his blood-dimmed eyes, Yet courage, soul! nor hold thy strength in vain, Another country, golden to the shore,

In hope o'ercome the steeps God set for thee, Where a new passion and new hopes arise,

For past the Alpine summits of great pain Where southern blooms unfold forevermore.

Lieth thine Italy.

- Rose Terry Cooke.

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