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The glad, mad hills
All veined with rills,
Are glowing a glory
Of infinite green,
And a lyric laughter flashes round
With the onyx-emerald sheen.


To the birth foam toss,
To the throb of the glade,
to the pulse of the wheat,
To the surge of the blade,
to the beat of the flood,
To the reel of the blood,
Dance! lilt! swing!
And off! Awing
With the gold-throat oriole.