High in a sycamore sets a foolish crow
A thinking on the mischief he is apt to bestow
A mocking bird echoes the call of a quail
Confusing another in a brushy vale
The deep bawl of a late running hound sends a woodchuck
scurring to its mound
The dawn seems to me a bit melancholy as it passes on
Perhaps it is because the hollyhock grow heavy on the lawn
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