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And thus with thee bright angels make their dwelling, Bringing thee stores of strength when no man knoweth;
The ocean-stream from God's heart ever swelling,
THE CLOUD.- Shelley.
I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
I bear light shades for the leaves, when laid
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
And whiten the green plains under,
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,-
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
When the morning star shines dead.
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea be
Its ardors of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, As still as a brooding dove.
That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,
The mountains its columns be.
When the powers of air are chained to my chair,
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,
While the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water,
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
For after the rain, when with never a stain
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams,
Build up the blue dome of air,
I arise and unbuild it again.
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
MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.
BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.
BREAK, break, break,
On thy cold, gray stones, O Sea,
O, well for the fisherman's boy
That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor lad
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
But, O, for the touch of a vanished hand,
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea,
MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. - Burns.
WHEN chill November's surly blast
MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.
I spied a man whose aged step
Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?
Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
"The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Twice forty times return,
"O man! while in thy early years,
"Look not alone on youthful prime,