His oriental heresies
Exhilarate the Bee,
And filling all the Earth and Air
With gay apostasy
Fatigued at last, a Clover plain
Allures his jaded eye
That lowly Breast where Butterflies
Have felt it meet to die —
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His voice decrepit was with Joy —
Her words did totter so
How old the News of Love must be
To make Lips elderly
That purled a moment since with Glee —
Is it Delight or Woe —
Or Terror — that do decorate
This livid interview — -
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Holy Thursday[1]
Is this a holy thing to see
In a rich & fruitful land,
Babes reduced to misery?
Fed with cold & usurous hand?
Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so...'Mid pleasures and Palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home! Home! sweet sweet Home!
There's no place like Home! There's no place like...Maiden! in whose kindling eye,
Burns the fire of prophecy,
On whose brow its glories shine,
Priestess at the hidden shrine;
Tell me what fair visions rise,
As the future greets thine eyes.
Thither where thou still dost turn,
Does...
Alas! my fond enquiring soul,
Doom'd in suspence to mourn;
Now let thy moments calmly roll,
Now let thy peace return.
Why should'st thou let a...Hope is a strange invention —
A Patent of the Heart —
In unremitting action
Yet never wearing out —
Of this electric Adjunct
Not anything is known
But its unique momentum
Embellish all we own —Hope is a subtle Glutton —
He feeds upon the Fair —
And yet — inspected closely
What Abstinence is there —
His is the Halcyon Table —
That never seats but One —
And whatsoever is consumed
The same amount remain —"Hope" is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all
And sweetest in the Gale is heard
And sore must be the storm —
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm —
I've heard it in the...