There's nothing in you like the beach,
Where cold surf pounds and drowns the weak,
Nor are you a meadow 'neath summer's sun skies–
You're not wide and expansive; you don't hurt my eyes.
You're not like mountains, nature's wall.
You aren't capped white; you're five feet tall.
There's some in you which nature fixed.
The rest? Good raising's artifice.
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