In the blue mountains

The passions do not rise high.
The mountains gently shake
Shimmering silver oaks off
The wind in their hair.

These matronly mountains
Squat pretty in the valleys
Wearing their best velvet

The air here is tea-fragrant
As magical woman-fingers
Pluck two leaves and a bud
Hurl them in baby-baskets

Time hangs lightly between
Sips of tepid C.T.C. tea.

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