/0/6731/coverbig.jpg?v=86f318cbd1438335a7c04abf7b21e684)
So saith he, when noontide fervors flout him,
So thinks, when the West is amber and red,
When he smells the hop-vines sweet about him,
And the clouds are rosy overhead.
While slender and tall the hop-poles going
Straight to the West in their leafy lines,
Portion it out into chambers, glowing,
And bask in red day as the sun decl
COPYRIGHT(©) 2022