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     Her only lore, the legends told
Around the hunter's fire at night;
     Stars rose and set, and seasons rolled,
Flowers bloomed and snow-flakes fell, unquestioned in her sight.

Unknown to her the subtle skill
     With which the artist-eye can trace
In rock and tree and lake and hill
     The outlines of divinest grace;
Unknown the fine soul's keen unrest,
     Which sees, admires, yet yearns alway;
Too closely on her mother's breast
     To note her smiles of love the child of Nature lay!

It is enough for such to be
     Of common, natural things a part,
To feel, with bird and stream and tree,
     The pulses of the same great heart;
But we, from Nature long exiled,
     In our cold homes of Art and Thought
Grieve like the stranger-tended child,
     Which seeks its mother's arms, and sees but feels them not.

The garden rose may richly bloom
     In cultured soil and genial air,
To cloud the light of Fashion's room
     Or droop in Beauty's midnight hair;
In lonelier grace, to sun and dew
     The sweetbrier on the hillside shows
Its single leaf and fainter hue,
     Untrained and wildly free, yet still a sister rose!

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