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The Fifteen Acres

II cling and

On a branch, or

Through the cool, clear hush of Morning,

O!

Or fling my

On the air, and

To sleepier birds a warning,

O!

That the night's in flight,

And the sun's in sight,

And the dew is the grass adorning,

O!

And the green leaves

As I sing, sing, sing,

Up by the river,

Down the dell,

To the little wee nest,

Where the big tree fell,

So early in the morning,

O!

II flit and

In the sun for a

When his light so bright is shining,

O!

Or sit and

My plumes, or

Straw plaits for the nest's nice lining,

O!

And she with

Shows unto

Underneath her wings reclining,

O!

And I sing that

Has an egg, egg, egg,

Up by the oat-field,

Round by the mill,

Past the meadow,

Down the hill,

So early in the morning,

O!

II stoop and

On the air, or

Through the trees, and then go soaring,

O!

To group with a

On the gusty

While the wind behind is roaring,

O!

I skim and

By a cloud's red

And up to the azure flooring,

O!

And my wide wings

As I slip, slip, slip,

Down through the rain-drops,

Back where

Broods in the

On the little white egg,

So early in the morning,

O!

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James Stephens

James Stephens (9 February 1880[1] – 26 December 1950) was an Irish novelist and poet.

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