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From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 27, 1914. By Bayoll Ne Trele.

A summer wood,
    A vagrant breeze,
A writing tablet
    On my knees;
A rhythmic swaying
    Of the boughs,
An anxious knitting
    Of my brows;
A hundred things
    With meaning fraught,
Yet not one single thought.

A seat of rock,
    A rug of moss,
A ceiling where
    Green branches toss;
A bird voice calls
    From some far nook,
A leaf spins downward
    To the brook.
A crackling noise,
    A cow! I flee—
The beast is headed straight for me.

My seat of rock,
    My ceiling green
Has just been changed—
    There’s a fence between;
And on that rock
    Whence I did scud
There stands the cow
    And chews her cud.
With placid eye
    She looks me o’er,
A-standing where
    I sat before,
And seems to say
    O you high brow
I wonder who’s
    The poet now.

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