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John Grosvenor Wilson

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First Lines of John Grosvenor Wilson

A maiden sits with idle ball and skein, Dearest, to thee I dedicate the fruit Eve o'er the sacred vale -- in joyous mood From the far frozen Hope and Courage rigged his spars, Icicles hang In the very blackest night O voice of the people, now thunder On the shore of the Monarch of Lakes One morn the prairie reached afar, Where marbles and mounds lie together Who are these that gather in the green moonshine