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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