FRESH AIR
by Amos Russel Wells
Gaily afield, this morning of the skies,
From earth's wide bowl a blessed draught I draw,
Air of the hilltops! air the sun first saw
Dimpling to greet him; air that flits and flies
From where the pond to where the meadow lies;
Crystalline air, that has no fleck or flaw;
Runaway air, itself its own best law,
Wild as the brooks from upland rocks that rise.
Bring me, sweet air, the courage of the hills.
A weary day's before me; murmur low
The meadow-charm that masters frets and ills,
The healthful secret that the woodlands know.
With all the daring joy of mountain rills
Into my surly, stagnant living flow!
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