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Before scribes wrote their histories Or bards their stories ever told, In lost times shroud in mysteries Forgot before the world was old, The Mother dreamed inside Her hill And breathed the sleeping earth to song And sang the first rains down to fill The springs that rise to flow along The mountain face and valley floor, Away across the treeless plain, Down to the wild and windy shore To find the waiting sea again, And if one more day I might rise To toil beneath the arcing sun, I’ll sing again my vast surprise At all Her music just begun.

Henry's books.

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