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The Island

They mowed the meadow down below

Our house the other day

But left a grassy island where

We can still go and play.

Right in the middle of the field

It rises green and high;

Bees swing on the clover there,

And butterflies blow by.

It seems a very far-off place

With oceans all around:

The only thing to see is sky,

And wind, the only sound.

By

Dorothy Aldis