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I IO POEMS.
��VIII.
A MURMUR in the trees to note,
- Not loud enough for wind ;
A star not far enough to seek, Nor near enough to find ;
A long, long yellow on the lawn,
A hubbub as of feet ; Not audible, as ours to us,
But dapperer, more sweet ;
A hurrying home of little men
To houses unperceived, All this, and more, if I should tell,
Would never be believed.
Of robins in the trundle bed
How many I espy Whose nightgowns could not hide the wings,
Although I heard them try !
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