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The grass around my limbs is deep and sweet;
Yonder the house has lost its shadow wholly,
The blinds are dropped, and softly now and slowly
White busts and marble Dian make it holy,
Within a niche hangs Durer's Melancholy Brooding; and, should you enter, there will greet Your sense with vague allurement effluence faint
Of one magnolia bloom ; fair fingers draw From the piano Chopin's heart-complaint ;
Alone, white-robed she sits ; a fierce macaw On the verandah, proud of plume and paint,
Screams, insoleut despot, showing beak and claw.
EVENING, NEAR THE SEA.
Light ebbs from off the Earth ; the fields are strange,
Dark, trackless, tenantless ; now the mute sky
Resigns itself to Night and Memory,
The rare voice ceases ; one long-breathëd sigh,
And steeped in summer sleep the world must lie ; All things are acquiescing in the change. Hush ! while the vaulted hollow of the night Deepens, what voice is this the sea sends forth,
Disconsolate iterance, a passionless moan? Ah ! now the Day is gone, and tyrannous Light And the calm presence of fruit-bearing Earth :
Cry, Sea I it is thy hour; thou art alone.
With brain o'erworn, with heart a summer clod,
And all forins mean,—to glance above the ground
But suddenly, we know not how, a sound
Of living streams, an odour, a flower crowned
We hear the voices of the morning seas,
The encompassing great cloud of witnesses.
A LONELY way, and as I went my eyes
Could not unfasten from the Spring's sweet things,
Lush-sprouted grass, and all that climbs and clings In loose, deep hedges, where the primrose lies In her own fairness, buried blooms surprise
The plunderer bee and stop his murmurings,
And the glad flutter of a fipch's wings Outstartle small blue-speckled butterflies. Blissfully did one speedwell plot beguile My whole heart long; I loved each separate flower,
Kneeling. I looked up suddenly-Dear God ! There stretched the shining plain for many a mile, The mountains rose with what invincible power !
And how the sky was fathomless and broad !
When thou would'st have me go with thee, O Death,
Over the utmost verge, to the dim place,
Practise upon me with no amorous grace
Nor think for me there must be sought-out ways
Of cloud and terror ; have we many days
Hold thy hand out and I will place mine there ;
Shadow lies deep of thy purpureal hair,