The hill advances like the swell of a hip Dwindling into an ankle of meadow Where cows nibble tidbits of mustard toes How feminine, how soft rolls the green sward In an undulating beguiling wave of green Pregnant with Spring Someday I half expect a gentle green giantess to rise Out of the sleeping hill, and stretch And plod softly away Strewing cows and mustard in her wake raising clouds of birds out of the hummocks of her green hair
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