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Some things that fly there be, -- |
Birds, hours, the bumble-bee: |
Of these no elegy. |
Some things that stay there be, -- |
Grief, hills, eternity: |
Nor this behooveth me. |
There are, that resting, rise. |
Can I expound the skies? |
How still the riddle lies! |
THE LONELY HOUSE. |
I know some lonely houses off the road |
A robber 'd like the look of, -- |
Wooden barred, |
And windows hanging low, |
Inviting to |
A portico, |
Where two could creep: |
One hand the tools, |
The other peep |
To make sure all's asleep. |
Old-fashioned eyes, |
Not easy to surprise! |
How orderly the kitchen 'd look by night, |
With just a clock, -- |
But they could gag the tick, |
And mice won't bark; |
And so the walls don't tell, |
None will. |
A pair of spectacles ajar just stir -- |
An almanac's aware. |
Was it the mat winked, |
Or a nervous star? |
The moon slides down the stair |
To see who's there. |
There's plunder, -- where? |
Tankard, or spoon, |
Earring, or stone, |
A watch, some ancient brooch |
To match the grandmamma, |
Staid sleeping there. |
Day rattles, too, |
Stealth's slow; |
The sun has got as far |
As the third sycamore. |
Screams chanticleer, |
"Who's there?" |
And echoes, trains away, |
Sneer -- "Where?" |
While the old couple, just astir, |
Fancy the sunrise left the door ajar! |
To fight aloud is very brave, |
But gallanter, I know, |
Who charge within the bosom, |
The cavalry of woe. |
Who win, and nations do not see, |
Who fall, and none observe, |
Whose dying eyes no country |
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