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In careless patches through the wood The clumps of yellow primrose stood, And sheets of white anemones, Like driven snow against the trees, Had covered up the violet, But left the Along the narrow carpet ride, With primroses on either side, Between their shadows and the sun, The cows came slowly, one by one, Breathing the early morning air And leaving it still sweeter there. And, one by one, intent upon Their purposes, they followed on In ordered silence . . . and were gone. But all the little wood was still, As if it waited so, until Some blackbird on an outpost yew, Watching the slow procession through, Lifted his yellow beak at last To whistle that the line had passed. . . . Then all the wood began to sing Its morning anthem to the spring. |