"BKUTE foster-mother, mild of humankind, 

 Whether in farm-yard ruminant reclined 

 At eve, with richest pasturage distent, 

 Emblem of rural quiet and content ; 

 From their secretions sweet their udders freed, 

 Or grazing patiently on hill or mead, 

 No beast or tame or wild, O gentle cow, 

 Can sweeter thoughts recall to mind than thou. 



"The golden butter is thy produce, and 

 Thou feedest all the nurseries of the land 

 With streams nectareous, health-bestowing, sweet, 

 When iced, a luscious drink in summer's heat ; 

 In the old mythic heaven of the North 

 The cow Adumbla prominent stood forth. 

 When summer suns extend their farewell beams, 

 At eve, what pastoral music sweeter seems 

 Than the cow's lowings when she hastens home, 

 While clouds of insects round her sport and hum ; 

 Her breath is then most odorous indeed, 

 Full of the scent of hillside and of mead ; 

 Inhaling it the milkmaid's cheeks can show 

 A bloom such as cosmetics can't bestow." 



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