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the dull white of vague orchards in bloom,
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and perhaps a stone fence, or hills of greenish gouache.
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So, so far the American landscape is already a work of art,
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already part of a European memory.
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Then something else happens: "But gradually the models of those
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elementary rusticities became stranger and stranger to the eye,
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the nearer I came to know them.
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Beyond the tilled plain"-- in other words, the already worked-over,
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domesticated plain-- "beyond the toy roofs,
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there would be a slow suffusion of inutile loveliness,
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a low sun in a platinum haze with a warm,
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peeled-peach tinge pervading the upper edge of a two-dimensional,