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by Mary Elizabeth McGrath Blake

A red sun rising at morning
With flame on his burning crest;
A red sun sinking at evening,
In the molten glow of the west;
The air grown languid and drooping,
On wings too heavy to fly;
The voice of a drowsy locust
That croons to a drowsy sky;
And cool waves crisping and darkling
Across the hot sands of July!

Down on the beach with the seashells,
Their brave brown cheeks aglow,
I watch the play of the children,
And follow them to and fro.
O sweet red lips of my darlings!
O light of the fearless eye!
With ye comes rest for the spirit;
And freshness and peace draw nigh
Like cool waves crisping and darkling,
Across the hot sands of July!

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