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Poem by Hamlin Garland
From the great trees the locusts cry In quavering ecstatic duo—a boy Shouts a wild call—a mourning dove In the blue distance sobs—the wind Wanders by, heavy with odors Of corn and wheat and melon vines; The trees tremble with delirious joy as the breeze Greets them, one by one—now the oak Now the great sycamore, now the elm. And the locusts in brazen chorus, cry Like stricken things, and the ring-dove's note Sobs on in the dim distance.
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