Now summer finds her perfect prime;
Sweet blows the wind from western calms;
On every bower red roses climb;
The meadows sleep in mingled balms.
Nor stream, nor bank the wayside by,
But lilies float and daisies throng;
Nor space of blue and sunny sky
That is not cleft with soaring song.
O flowery morns, O tuneful eves,...
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"Heaven" — is what I cannot reach!
The Apple on the Tree —
Provided it do hopeless — hang —
That — "Heaven" is — to Me!
The Color, on the Cruising Cloud —
The interdicted Land —
Behind the Hill — the House behind —
There — Paradise — is found!
Her teasing Purples —...