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IN A HAMMOCK.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

Two waving willows by the river stand,

And droop their branches till they kiss the stream,

Which, by the fragrant southern breezes fanned,

Beneath the cooling shadows seems to dream.

The sun is sinking down behind the hills;

The clouds are golden-red upon the west;

The song of robins all the silence fills:

This is the hour of day that I love best.

Between the willow-trees my hammock swings,

And from it I am looking at the glow

Of sunset, on the clouds and on the wings

Of busy swallows darting to and fro.

The stream grows glassy as the breezes die,

And on its bosom sweet reflections lie, -

The sunset glory reproduced below,

More glorious even than the one on high.

And graceful grasses with the violets blue,

Narcissus-like enchanted with themselves,

Hang motionless upon the view

Until the dusky elves

Come out with chalices of crystal dew,

And darkness hides the mirror from their eyes.

The clouds have vanished from the faded west,

Save one, which low down in the gloaming lies;

And on its edge the evening star doth rest.

The night is come with all her majesty.

I bow before her, and I recognize

Her crown of beauty gleaming in the sky.

N. H. D.

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