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Then ask not why to these bleak hills
     I cling, as clings the tufted moss,
To bear the winter's lingering chills,
     The mocking spring's perpetual loss.
I dream of lands where summer smiles,
     And soft winds blow from spicy isles,
But scarce would Ceylon's breath of flowers be sweet,
     Could I not feel thy soil, New England, at my feet!

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New England (United States) (1)

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