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Soft the dew-drenched mountain morning,
Many the shades of green and brown,
Gentle the lay of misty fog,
Across the hilly, stone pitched ground.
Crisp the frosty meadow eve'n,
Dark the moonless, starry night,
Sharply glisten the twigs and branches
And grass grown dormant with winter blight.
Bright the manic city streets,
Loud with horns and shouts and noise,
Littered with paper, dirt and flotsam;
O! For country's simple joys!
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