Confirming All who analyze
In the Opinion fair
That Eloquence is when the Heart
Has not a Voice to spare —
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-
Conjecturing a Climate
Of unsuspended Suns —
Adds poignancy to Winter —
The Shivering Fancy turns
To a fictitious Country
To palliate a Cold —
Not obviated of Degree —
Nor erased — of Latitude — -
Like two streams, whose onward courses
Mingling in one current blend—
Like two waves, whose gentle forces
To the ocean’s bosom tend.
Like two rays that kiss each other
In the presence of the sun—
Like two drops that run together,
And...This was the way of it, don't you know —
Ryan was "wanted" for stealing sheep,
And never a trooper, high or low,
Could find him — catch a weasel asleep!
Till Trooper Scott, from the Stockman's Ford —
A bushman, too, as I've heard them tell —
Chanced to find him drunk as a lord
Round at the...Conscious am I in my Chamber,
Of a shapeless friend —
He doth not attest by Posture —
Nor Confirm — by Word —
Neither Place — need I present Him —
Fitter Courtesy
Hospitable intuition
Of His Company —
Presence — is His furthest license —
Neither He to Me...Ah, many-voiced and angry! how the waves
Beat turbulent with terrible uproar!
Is there no rest from tossing,--no repose?
Where shall we find a haven and a shore?
What is secure from the land-dashing wave?
There go our riches, and our hopes fly there;
There go the faces of our best beloved,
...Consulting summer's clock,
But half the hours remain.
I ascertain it with a shock —
I shall not look again.
The second half of joy
Is shorter than the first.
The truth I do not dare to know
I muffle with a jest.Contained in this short Life
Are magical extents
The soul returning soft at night
To steal securer thence
As Children strictest kept
Turn soonest to the sea
Whose nameless Fathoms slink away
Beside infinitySometime now past in the Autumnal Tide,
When Phoebus wanted but one hour to bed,
The trees all richly clad, yet void of pride,
Were gilded o're by his rich golden head.
Their leaves and fruits seem'd painted but was true
Of green, of red, of yellow, mixed hew,
Rapt were my senses at this delectable view...O Hunger, Hunger, I will harness thee
And make thee harrow all my spirit’s glebe.
Of old the blind bard Herve sang so sweet
He made a wolf to plow his land.