Upon the earth the fire is red.
The swollen brook releases its shed,
And rain falls; shelters are few or one,
Such as the hollow tree long dead.
Misty morning turns to silver sun.
Crisp night comes when the day is done.
Within the dark, herb and briar grows.
But holly, cypress, pine are none.
Clumps of lavender and wild rose,
Glints out as brightly and bold as those
Sitting near shady bogs and damp roots.
Undergrowth mold, though, it never shows.
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