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[93] Wild heather-bells and Robert Burns!
     The moorland flower and peasant!
How, at their mention, memory turns
     Her pages old and pleasant!

The gray sky wears again its gold
     And purple of adorning,
And manhood's noonday shadows hold
     The dews of boyhood's morning.

The dews that washed the dust and soil
     From off the wings of pleasure,
The sky, that flecked the ground of toil
     With golden threads of leisure.

I call to mind the summer day,
     The early harvest mowing,
The sky with sun and clouds at play,
     And flowers with breezes blowing.

I hear the blackbird in the corn,
     The locust in the haying;
And, like the fabled hunter's horn,
     Old tunes my heart is playing.

How oft that day, with fond delay,
     I sought the maple's shadow,
And sang with Burns the hours away,
     Forgetful of the meadow!

Bees hummed, birds twittered, overhead
     I heard the squirrels leaping,
The good dog listened while I read,
     And wagged his tail in keeping.

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