Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Poem a Day XXVI


The forest bright in morning is as busy as a town,
as rich in dewy freshness as a farm with fertile ground,
undecayed, untouched, pristine as the day it first was sown!

The farms have little fires burning in their hardy hearths,
with crops that dress the table with the finest fruits of earth;
but no farms grow forest pines that are ancient in their worth.

The cities have their markets full at once with all the world;
they shimmer with the colors of a thousand flags unfurled.
But which have laughing springs from which leaping brooks uncurl?

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