Alexander Lawrence Posey


I SEE the millet combing gold
  From summer sun,
In hussar caps, all day;
&nbs; And brown quails run
Far down the dusty way,
  Fly up and whistle from the wold;

Sweet delusions on the mountains,
  Of hounds in chase,
    Beguiling every care 
  Of life apace,
    Though only fevered air 
That trembles, and dies in mounting.

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