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Monday, August 6, 2012

Mild the mist upon the hill by Emily Bronte

Mild the mist upon the hill 
Telling not of storms tomorrow; 
No, the day has wept its fill, 
Spent its store of silent sorrow.

O, I'm gone back to the days of youth, 
I am a child once more, 
And 'neath my father's sheltering roof 
And near the old hall door

I watch this cloudy evening fall 
After a day of rain; 
Blue mists, sweet mists of summer pall 
The horizon's mountain chain.

The damp stands on the long green grass 
As thick as morning's tears, 
And dreamy scents of fragrance pass 
That breathe of other years.

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