Summer in the South
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he Oriole sings in the greening groveAs if he were half-way waiting,The rosebuds peep from their hoods of green,Timid, and hesitating.The rain comes down in a torrent sweepAnd the nights smell warm and pinety,The garden thrives, but the tender shootsAre yellow-green and tiny.Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill,Streams laugh that erst were quiet,The sky smiles down with a dazzling blueAnd the woods run mad with riot.
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