SPARROW
To the perpetual green and gold
In dusk and dew his eyes are cold;
For his untravelled heart yet turns
Home where the smoky city burns.
In dusk and dew his eyes are cold;
For his untravelled heart yet turns
Home where the smoky city burns.
A little while for health he stays
Where Flora paints the country ways,
But holds that still the town is best
For men and birds of wit and taste.
Where Flora paints the country ways,
But holds that still the town is best
For men and birds of wit and taste.
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