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Normale Version: TO A PINE.
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TO A PINE.

ADDRESSED IN A SONNET ON SPRING, FORMERLY PUBLISHED.

Pine, whose green branches to my vernal song
Were as the coronal, gracing its close ;
Now, forth his painted portals, Autumn goes
Over the woods, that will be bare ere long.
He leads them, reeling like a Thracian throng ;
And each in turn his leafy chaplet throws
Down at his feet; only the Ilex knows
A spell superior to the enchanter strong.
He hath a hollow root, in which the mice
Dream out the winter, or some woodland bee ;
Yet bravely doth his dusk head front the stars ;
Through whose dread gates hath pass'd a century twice,
Since he was planted ; nourish thus my tree,
And see a prosperous end of civil jars.