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Sometimes I think the hills That loom across the harbor Lie there like sleeping dragons, Crouched one above another, With trees for tufts of fur Growing all up and down The ridges and humps of their backs, And orange cliffs for claws Dipped in the sea below. Sometimes a wisp of smoke Rises out of the hollows, As if in their dragon sleep They dreamed of strange old battles. What if the hills should stir Some day and stretch themselves, Shake off the clinging trees And all the clustered houses? |