How often have I started outWith no thought in my noodle,And wandered here and there about,Where fancy bade me toddle;Till feeling faunlike in my gleeI've voiced some gay distiches,Returning joyfully to tea,A poem in my britches.A-squatting on a thymy slopeWith vast of sky about me,I've scribbled on an envelopeThe rhymes the hills would shout me;The couplets that the trees would call,The lays the
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