The air was sweet and plaintive, and the words, literally translated, were these. "The winds roared, and the rains fell. The poor white man, faint and weary, came and sat under our tree. He has no mother to bring him milk; no wife to grind his corn.
On the Beauties, Harmonies, and Sublimities of Nature: With Occasional ... - Page 170
by Charles Bucke - 1823
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