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Fri, Jun 3, 11 at 21:10
| 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. Summer in the South by Paul Laurence Dunbar |
Follow-Up Postings:
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| Sorry I missed this one---very nice! Thanks, ej! |
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| Love the word "pinety" it describes this certain aroma so precisely. Lovely Poem. |
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| The sounds, sights and smells of summer are unique according to the environment. We have such diversity in this large continent the experiences are abundant. Wonder if they will ever perfect smell-a-vision. Great poem ej, thanks. |
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