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They Who Prepare my Evening Meal Below

 They who prepare my evening meal below
Carelessly hit the kettle as they go
With tongs or shovel,
And ringing round and round,
Out of this hovel
It makes an eastern temple by the sound.
At first I thought a cow bell right at hand Mid birches sounded o'er the open land, Where I plucked flowers Many years ago, Spending midsummer hours With such secure delight they hardly seemed to flow.

by Henry David Thoreau
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