Oh high-minded critic Would you grade The silent woods Or burbling mountain brook Crossing meadow's vale Over long-rounded stones Why then stamp Flowered words on a page With your slashing Sun-red pen Lay down your judging sword Lie with us in the meadow Listen to the stones bubbling Be content that they are That they are what they are And content yourself with that Which they are
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This work is Copyright (c) Mike Fletcher 2006