Personal Reflections
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Hillsides of Scotland
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The verdant-brown, unevenly checkered hills
Of Scotland roll and twist through mist and rain.
A blurry pond expands from storm-made rills,
And flowers outside my pattered windowpane,
.
Thus sitting close upon the sill in streaks,
Are blushing colors blending with the rues.
But when the showers cease to fill the creeks
And through the clouds come streaks of grayish hues,
.
The patter’s beat is then subdued with bleat,
And I stroll again the hillsides salted with sheep,
Past surging braes and moors, to the outer mete,
Yet peppered scarcely here and there to keep
.
Both nature’s salad vales and hills to taste.
I wonder, Why do men fly on in haste?