Thou, sitting on the hill-top bare,Dost see the far hills disappearIn Autumn smoke, and all the airFilled with bright leaves. Below thee spreadAre yellow harvests, rich in breadFor winter use; while over-headThe jays to one another call,And through the stilly woods there fall,Ripe nuts at intervals, where'erThe squirrel, perched in upper air,From tree-top barks at thee his fear;His cunning eyes, mistrustingly,Do spy at thee around the...
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