Still though the one I sing,
(One, yet of contradictions made) I dedicate to Nationality,
I leave in him revolt, (O latent right of insurrection! O quenchless, indispensable fire!)
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What though the green leaf grow?
’T will last a month and day;
In all sweet flowers that blow
Lurks Death, his slave Decay.But if my lady smile
There is no Death at all;
The world is fair the while,—
What though the red leaf fall? -
It ceased to hurt me, though so slow
I could not feel the Anguish go —
But only knew by looking back —
That something — had benumbed the Track —
Nor when it altered, I could say,
For I had worn it, every day,
As constant as the Childish frock —
I hung upon the Peg, at night.
...Our own possessions — though our own —
'Tis well to hoard anew —
Remembering the Dimensions
Of Possibility.Though the great Waters sleep,
That they are still the Deep,
We cannot doubt —
No vacillating God
Ignited this Abode
To put it out —