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The little cares that fretted me, I lost them yesterday Among the fields above the sea, Among the winds at play; Among the lowing of the herds - The rustling of the trees; Among the singing of the birds - The humming of the bees. The foolish fear of what may come, I cast it all away Among the clover-scented grass Among the new-mown hay; Among the rustling of the corn, Where drowsy poppies nod; Where ill thoughts die and good are born, Out in the fields with God. |
| (Mrs Browning) |
| Ruth Jones |