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IX. DOVER
(In a Field)
A joy has met me on this English groundI looked not for. O gladness, fields still green!
Listen,—the going of a murmurous sound
Along the corn; there is not to be seen
In all the land a single pilèd sheaf
Or line of grain new-fallen, and not a tree
Has felt as yet within its lightest leaf
The year's despair; nay, Summer saves for me
Her bright, late flowers. O my Summer-time
Named low as lost, I turn, and find you here—
Where else but in our blessed English clime
That lingers o'er the sweet days of the year,
Days of long dreaming under spacious skies
Ere melancholy winds of Autumn rise.
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