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     I hail the season loved so much,
The good St. Martin's summer.

O gracious morn, with rose-red dawn,
     And thin moon curving o'er it!
The old year's darling, latest born,
     More loved than all before it!

How flamed the sunrise through the pines
     How stretched the birchen shadows,
Braiding in long, wind-wavered lines
     The westward sloping meadows!

The sweet day, opening as a flower
     Unfolds its petals tender,
Renews for us at noontide's hour
     The summer's tempered splendor.

The birds are hushed; alone the wind,
     That through the woodland searches,
The red-oak's lingering leaves can find,
     And yellow plumes of larches.

But still the balsam-breathing pine
     Invites no thought of sorrow,
No hint of loss from air like wine
     The earth's content can borrow.

The summer and the winter here
     Midway a truce are holding,
A soft, consenting atmosphere
     Their tents of peace enfolding.

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