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And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays: The little bird sits at his door in the sun Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives. |
| - Lowell - |
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From A Friend. |