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by James B. Kenyon

What unseen power hath wrought this wondrous change?
It was but yestermorn the dull brown mold
Grew by some sudden magic, new and strange,
Bright with these starry flakes of living gold.

Ah, can it be that olden tale is true?
Hath Phrygian Midas journeyed thro' the land,
And while men slumbered and the southwind blew,
Let fall these golden discs from out his hand?

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