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Show In the Orchard. Ohl here, beneath -this roof of green, I throw me down nnd dream again The golden dreams of what hu been And future harvests yet to gain! The wheat waves In the field closo by. An apple, ripened ere Us time, Drops from the tree, the sun's great eye Seeks through tho leaves, nnd, us I rh) ine. Tho birds weavo to nnd fro and sing The very songs I would declare. And now und then the brunches swing Stirred gently by u wandering air. Tho binders, clicking In the wheat, Tho whistle of a passing train. The distant noises of the street, Are to my song a low refrain. Today t Today I rest at ease And pick the golden fruits that giou- In solitude on twigs of peace The fruits that only dreamers know. Herman Have, In New York News. |