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a web of many textures

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While in my wanderings, lately, I described,
Close by an ancient hut dilapidated,
An apple-tree in guise of blooming pride,
Scarcely in prouder precincts to be mated.
Its graceful branches o'er the old hut threw
An air of bloom that seemed rejuvenating;
I quite forgot the hovel was not new,
Among the odors that were round it waiting.
And here methought an emblem I had found
Of age with brightest virtues round it resting;
Though life's dark night steals on to fold it round,
The bloom of cheerfulness is still investing
The crazy fabric, bowed by Time's rude storms,
And waves above it in divinest forms.