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its springy turf, and let the strength of it, 

 the sweetness, the balm of healing, lap your 

 tired soul to the Elysium, sleep such sleep 

 as comes never within four walls, or to the 

 downiest couch ever fashioned by man's 

 hand. Sleep, and dream not. This the 

 hour of fruition, needs not to borrow charm 

 of such insubstantial stuff. A full world 

 and goodly lies all about. Upland, orchards 

 blush red and yellow; lowland, stubble, 

 meadow, corn-field, chant in high, colorful 

 notes a swelling prelude to Nature's har- 

 vest-home. 



What scent comes out of the corn-land 

 rare, fine, subtile as breath of elfin flowers ? 

 All the russet rustling stretch is steeped in 

 its balm. You drink it in long gasps, and 

 turn away, sighing it is full, so full, of 

 spring, and dew, and dawn, and hope, and 

 youth. Only pease - blossoms ! See the 

 matted, leafy tangle of them all under the 

 corn. The painted, patient winged flower 

 shows white or pinky-purple or palest melt- 

 ing blue. Now where be Cobweb, Moth, 

 and Mustard -seed this field-sprite's good 

 compeers Titania, Bottom all the fairy 

 crew ? Who knows but if you lingered into 

 moonrise you might find them all at revel 

 here, with Master Pease-blossom for host. 



