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Trees
Crooked grey village,
I loved every stone of you,
Friends of my youth, and the
Kin of my own in you;
Sorrowful-wise
The folk look in my eyes,
Their words are but wounds
Now, I’m stepping alone in you.
Glen up beyond there,
I know every fold of you,
Blossom of heather,
Broom of the gold in you;
The wild birds’ long cry,
The hill waters’ sigh
Are sadder than tears
For the fine days of old in you.
Wood of the birches,
The pretty shy trees in you,
Silver and grey, with the
Kind little breeze of you,
All the length of the day
There is nothing they say
But what I would hear
In the peace of you—peace of you.
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