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A mystery.

the river hemmed with leaning trees
     Wound through its meadows green;
A low, blue line of mountains showed
     The open pines between.

One sharp, tall peak above them all
     Clear into sunlight sprang:
I saw the river of my dreams,
     The mountains that I sang!

No clue of memory led me on,
     But well the ways I knew;
A feeling of familiar things
     With every footstep grew.

Not otherwise above its crag
     Could lean the blasted pine;
Not otherwise the maple hold
     Aloft its red ensign.

So up the long and shorn foot-hills
     The mountain road should creep;
So, green and low, the meadow fold
     Its red-haired kine asleep.

The river wound as it should wind;
     Their place the mountains took;
The white torn fringes of their clouds
     Wore no unwonted look.

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