Riley Child-Rhymes

He owns the bird-songs of the hills— The laughter of the April rills; And his are all the diamonds set In Morning's dewy coronet,— And his the Dusk's first minted stars That twinkle through the pasture-bars And litter all the skies at night With glittering scraps of silver light;— The rainbow's bar, from rim to rim, In beaten gold, belongs to him.
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