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A burst of sudden wings at dawn, Faint voices in a dreamy noon, Evenings of mist and murmurings, And nights with rainbows of the moon.

And through these things a wood-way dim, And waters dim, and slow sheep seen On uphill paths that wind away Through summer sounds and harvest green.

This is a song a robin sang This morning on a broken tree, It was about the little fields That call across the world to me.

Belgium, July, 1917.