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Till the warm sun pities its pain, And to the skies exhales it back


Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my

tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her and

peer; And I laugh to see them whirl and

flee, Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind

built tent, Till the calm rivers, lakes, and

seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through

me on high Are each paved with the moon and


So the soul, that drop, that ray, Of the clear fountain of eternal

day, Could it within the human flower

be seen, Remembering still its former

height, Shuns the sweet leaves, and blos

soms green, And, recollecting its own light, Does, in its pure and circling

thoughts, express The greater heaven in a heaven less.

In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away,
So the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day,
Dark beneath, but bright above,
Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go;
How girt and ready to ascend;
Moving but on a point below,

It all about does upwards bend. Such did the manna's sacred dew dis

til, White and entire, although congealed

and chill; Congealed on earth; but does, dis

solving, run Into the glories of the almighty sun.


I am the daughter of earth and

water, And the nursling of the sky; I pass through the pores of the

nd shores; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when with never

a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and suubeams, with

their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a

ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again.





owy form

SEE how the orient dew,
Shed from the bosom of the morn

Into the blowing roses, (Yet careless of its mansion new, For the clear region where 'twas

Round in itself encloses
And, in its little globe's extent,
Frames, as it can, its native element.
How it the purple flower does

Scarce touching where it lies,
But gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with a mournful light,

Like its own tear,
Because so long divided from the

Restless it rolls, and insecure,

Trembling, lest it grow impure;

LIGHT-WINGED Smoke! Icarian bird, Melting thy pinions in thy upward

flight; Lark without song, and messenger

of dawn, Circling above the hamlets as thy

nest; Or else, departing dream, and shadOf midnight vision, gathering up thy

skirts; By night star-veiling, and by day Darkening the light and blotting out

the sun; Go thou, my incense, upward from

this hearth, And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.



And when I was a child, I laid
My hands upon my breast, and prayed,

And sank to slumbers deep:
Childlike as then I lie to-night,
And watch my lonely cabin-light.

Newfoundland air,
Fountain-head and source of rivers,
Dew-cloth, dream-drapery,
And napkin spread by fays;
Drifting meadow of the air,
Where bloom the daisied banks and

And in whose fenny labyrinth
The bittern booms and heron wades;
Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,
Bear only perfumes and the scent
Of healing herbs to just men's fields.


Each movement of the swaying lamp

Shows how the vessel reels : As o'er her deck the billows tramp, And all her timbers strain and cramp

With every shock she feels. It starts and shudders, while it burns, And in its hinged socket turns.


Now swinging slow and slanting low,

It almost level lies;
And yet I know, while to and fro
I watch the seeming pendule go

With restless fall and rise,
The steady shaft is still upright,
Poising its little globe of light.

Woor of the fen, ethereal gauze,
Woven of Nature's richest stuffs,
Visible heat, air-water, and dry sea,
Last conquest of the eye;
Toil of the day displayed, sun-dust,
Aerial surf upon the shores of earth,
Ethereal estuary, frith of light,
Breakers of air, billows of heat,
Fine summer spray on inland seas;
Bird of the sun, transparent-winged,
Owlet of noon, soft-pinioned,
From heath or stubble rising without

song, Establish thy serenity o'er the fields.


O hand of God! O lamp of peace!

O promise of my soul! Though weak, and tossed, and ill at

Amid the roar of smiting seas,

The ship's convulsive roll,
I own with love and tender awe
Yon perfect type of faith and law.

A heavenly trust my spirit calms,

My soul is filled with light: The Ocean sings his solemn psalms, The wild winds chant: I cross my

palms, Happy as if to-night Under the cottage roof again I heard the soothing summer rain.



The night is made for cooling shade,

For silence, and for sleep;





“The privates of man's heart

They speken and sound in his ear
As though they loud winds were." - GOWER.

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