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Crispy air and azure skies,
High above, a white cloud flies,
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'Still sits the schoolhouse by the road,
A ragged beggar sunning,
49 lines
March! And the brook still ice-bound,
And grass all brown and grey.
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Under the sunset's golden ray,
Yonder mountain, green and gray,
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At times, the mind speaks forth its pleasure
And clothes its thoughts in pigment or in rhyme.
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I am dreaming tonight by my fireside,
Of my pal and those days long ago;
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He paused where the river meets the wood,
And watched on its limpid plane
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They say that life's just what we make it.
Each one guides the course of his soul:
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You ought'er come over to our yard.
Oh boy! But we have fun!
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Under the pines, near the murmuring brook,
I know the wild orchids grow,
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When skies are black instead of azure blue
And all the world seems sadly out of tune,
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