Email Poem

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Poem	Dew -- is the Freshet in the Grass -- 'Tis many a tiny Mill Turns unperceived beneath our feet And Artisan lies still -- We spy the Forests and the Hills The Tents to Nature's Show Mistake the Outside for the in And mention what we saw. Could Commentators on the Sign Of Nature's Caravan Obtain "Admission" as a Child Some Wednesday Afternoon.
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