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Summer in the South

 The Oriole sings in the greening grove 
As if he were half-way waiting, 
The rosebuds peep from their hoods of green, 
Timid, and hesitating.
The rain comes down in a torrent sweep And the nights smell warm and pinety, The garden thrives, but the tender shoots Are yellow-green and tiny.
Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill, Streams laugh that erst were quiet, The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue And the woods run mad with riot.

by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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