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To see the little tippler |
Leaning against the sun! |
A BOOK. |
He ate and drank the precious words, |
His spirit grew robust; |
He knew no more that he was poor, |
Nor that his frame was dust. |
He danced along the dingy days, |
And this bequest of wings |
Was but a book. What liberty |
A loosened spirit brings! |
I had no time to hate, because |
The grave would hinder me, |
And life was not so ample I |
Could finish enmity. |
Nor had I time to love; but since |
Some industry must be, |
The little toil of love, I thought, |
Was large enough for me. |
UNRETURNING. |
'T was such a little, little boat |
That toddled down the bay! |
'T was such a gallant, gallant sea |
That beckoned it away! |
'T was such a greedy, greedy wave |
That licked it from the coast; |
Nor ever guessed the stately sails |
My little craft was lost! |
Whether my bark went down at sea, |
Whether she met with gales, |
Whether to isles enchanted |
She bent her docile sails; |
By what mystic mooring |
She is held to-day, -- |
This is the errand of the eye |
Out upon the bay. |
Belshazzar had a letter, -- |
He never had but one; |
Belshazzar's correspondent |
Concluded and begun |
In that immortal copy |
The conscience of us all |
Can read without its glasses |
On revelation's wall. |
XXVI. |
The brain within its groove |
Runs evenly and true; |
But let a splinter swerve, |
'T were easier for you |
To put the water back |
When floods have slit the hills, |
And scooped a turnpike for themselves, |
And blotted out the mills! |
II. LOVE. |
I. |
MINE. |
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