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land

Misty fields  of clovers bay
to thy wings in flight a stray
from the cold damp shores
the worlds dine in deep clay
 
over the hills forests plains
bones chatting plays away
to the fear of dripping rain
what else to thee thy remain
 
 
flowers smell fresh and so gay
tree sap from crying wood oak
summer corn bring me a beer
green grass grows like spears
slowly descending a new year

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