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What mean the gladness of the plain, This joy of eve and morn, The mirth that shakes the beard of grain And yellow locks of corn? Ah! eyes may well be full of tears, And hearts with hate are hot; But even-paced come round the years, And Nature changes not. She meets with smiles our bitter grief, With songs our groans of pain; She mocks with tint of flower and leaf The war-field's crimson stain.
And calm and patient Nature keeps Her ancient promise well, Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps The battle's breath of hell. Ah! eyes may well be full of tears, And hearts with hate are hot, But even-paced come round the years, And Nature changes not. She meets with smiles out bitter grief, With songs our groans of pain; She mocks with tint of flower and leaf The war-field's crimson stain.
Miss Warfield drew herself almost unusually erect after courtesying, as if in protest at having to bow at all. She was so tall that, as Emily stood between them, he could meet Miss War-field's iron-gray eyes above her head. It was the first time in Pinckney's life that he had consciously not known what to say. "I was so anxious to have you meet Charles before he left," said Emily.
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