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The Birthplace

 Here further up the mountain slope
Than there was every any hope,
My father built, enclosed a spring,
Strung chains of wall round everything,
Subdued the growth of earth to grass,
And brought our various lives to pass.
A dozen girls and boys we were.
The mountain seemed to like the stir, And made of us a little while-- With always something in her smile.
Today she wouldn't know our name.
(No girl's, of course, has stayed the same.
) The mountain pushed us off her knees.
And now her lap is full of trees.

by Robert Frost
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