On Ossa, Pelion nods with all his wood.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
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Mount o'er the Vales, and seem to tread the Sky;
Th' Eternal Snows appear already past,
And the first Clouds and Mountains seem the last:
But those attain'd, we tremble to survey
The growing Labours of the lengthen'd Way,
Th' increasing Prospect tires our wandring Eyes,
Hills peep o'er Hills, and Alps on Alps arise!
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RGB: 114 204 156
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RGB: 169 227 127
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RGB: 59 59 107
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RGB: 222 235 167
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RGB: 243 247 190