The
Deserted Pasture
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I LOVE
the stony pasture
That no one else will have.
The old gray rocks so friendly seem,
So durable and brave.
In tranquil contemplation
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It watches
through the year,
Seeing the frosty stars arise,
The slender moons appear.
Its music is the rain-wind,
Its choristers the birds,
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And
there are secrets in its heart
Too wonderful for words.
It keeps the bright-eyed creatures
That play about its walls,
Though long ago its milking herds
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| Were
banished from their stalls.
Only the children come there,
For buttercups in May,
Or nuts in autumn, where it lies
Dreaming the hours away.
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Long since its strength was given
To making good increase,
And now its soul is turned again
To beauty and to peace.
There in the early springtime
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The
violets are blue,
And adder-tongues in coats of gold
Are garmented anew.
There babyberry and aster
Are crowded on its floors,
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When
marching summer halts to praise
The Lord of Out-of-doors.
And there October passes
In gorgeous livery,–
In purple ash, and crimson oak,
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| And
golden tulip tree.
And when the winds of winter
Their bugle blasts begin,
The snowy hosts of heaven arrive
And pitch their tents therein.
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