The Hayloft by Robert Lewis Stevenson
Through all the pleasant meadow-sideThe grass grew shoulder-high,Till the shining scythes went far and wideAnd cut it down to dry.
These green and sweetly smelling cropsThey led in wagons home;And they piled them here in mountain topsFor mountaineers to roam.
Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail,Mount Eagle and Mount High;—The mice that in these mountains dwell,No happier are than I!
O what a joy to clamber there,O what a place for play,With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air,The happy hills of hay!
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