By C. A. Morrow
Twisting roads through green speckled hills
Red barns that dot a summer long gone
Skiers seeking perennial winter thrills
In woodlands deep and silently strong
From here to Newhart and Frost they go
To a spirit of Yankee grace and solitude
Where people in tone pleasantly speak
And show God their eternal gratitude
It is a long road that I've often taken
When my mind must gain peace from want
And leave my troubles behind forsaken
As I cross that brook into green Vermont.
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