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SLUE GRASS BALLADS
And where the rainbow-tinted sunbeams fade Under the long and trailing cloaks
Of mosses, bannered to the lofty boughs, That weave a close and leafy screen,
For nooks where fly-begoaded cattle browse, In covers cool, of grateful green.
Before the facade of the deep, dark wood,
The fallow-fields and pastures lie; And ripening harvests, teeming, rich and good,
Give pleasing promise to the eye. Among the china and the orange trees,
And flowers of myriad dye, And jasmine vines, that in each balmy breeze
Their gay and golden showers fly, There stands, with open doors, a planter's home,
And stillness reigns about its halls, Except the sound of bees around the comb,
Or ring-dove's low and distant calls.
The sunflower droops in comely grace Before the day-king's fervid raysó
A Clytie fair, who bends her modest face Beneath Apollo's ardent gaze.
A shimmering haze is in the air, The mocking bird his riot stills,