Emmonsail's Heath in Winter
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love to see the old heath's withered brakeMingle its crimpled leaves with furze and ling,While the old heron from the lonely lakeStarts slow and flaps his melancholy wing,And oddling crow in idle motions swingOn the half rotten ashtree's topmost twig,Beside whose trunk the gipsy makes his bed.Up flies the bouncing woodcock from the brigWhere a black quagmire quakes beneath the tread,The fieldfares chatter in the whistling thornAnd for the awe round fields and closen rove,And coy bumbarrels twenty in a droveFlit down the hedgerows in the frozen plainAnd hang on little twigs and start again.
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