To one who has been long in city pent,
        'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
        And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayer
Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
Who is more happy, when, with heart’s content,
        Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
        Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
And gentle tale of love and languishment?
Returning home at evening, with an ear
        Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye
Watching the sailing cloudlet’s bright career,
        He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
E’en like the passage of an angel’s tear
        That falls through the clear ether silently.

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