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In The Green Meadows

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Green are the meadows where the bird makes his song,










Abundant are the daisies where the days run long.












Children chase sheepdogs, the farmer watches with a smile,








All trace of city life is not shown for a mile.













The cottages are cosy, fires burn bright,
















All work is done in the hours of light.

















Nobody rushes, there is no pressure nor strain,
















Serenity is the name of this particular life’s vein.











Out in the country the rivers run clear,

















The winter chill comes and so passes a year.














In the warmth of the sun and the cool of the rain,














Peaceful are the valleys of wheat and of grain.



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