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57

XXXI.

These scenes, that are the dearest to thy heart,
Domestic;—the white house; the garden, neat;
The shingly walk, well-ending in a seat;
The arbour, where a sunbeam dare not dart;
The river, seen through where the branches part.
Heard gently laving just beneath our feet,
Beguiling with its sound the sense of heat,
Or boiling down the mound that's built athwart;
Use blunts their finer zest—quit them, and then
Enjoy the welcome thy return receives,
When all seems freshly sweet, and newly feels.
Thou shalt see all; hear all; approaching men
Whom the cur chides; the dripping water-wheels'
Quick dash; the very chirping in the eaves.