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I stood tiptoe upon a little hill; The air was cooling and so very still, That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, Their scanty-leaved and finely tapering stems, Had not yet lost those starry diadems Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn, And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept On the blue fields of heaven; and then there crept A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves; For not the faintest motion could be seen Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. A bush of Mayflowers with the bees about them; Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without them. And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them Moist, cool, and green; and shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. |