--Louise BoganCome, let us tell the weeds in ditchesHow we are poor, who once had riches,And lie out in the sparse and soddenPastures that the cows have trodden,The while an autumn night seals downThe comforts of the wooden town.Come, let us counsel some cold strangerHow we sought safety, but loved danger.So, with stiff walls about us, weChose this more fragile boundary:Hills, where light poplars, the firm oak,Loosen into a little smoke.
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