text stringlengths 0 44 |
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Nothing to show |
But Calvary. |
IX. |
Have you got a brook in your little heart, |
Where bashful flowers blow, |
And blushing birds go down to drink, |
And shadows tremble so? |
And nobody knows, so still it flows, |
That any brook is there; |
And yet your little draught of life |
Is daily drunken there. |
Then look out for the little brook in March, |
When the rivers overflow, |
And the snows come hurrying from the hills, |
And the bridges often go. |
And later, in August it may be, |
When the meadows parching lie, |
Beware, lest this little brook of life |
Some burning noon go dry! |
X. |
TRANSPLANTED. |
As if some little Arctic flower, |
Upon the polar hem, |
Went wandering down the latitudes, |
Until it puzzled came |
To continents of summer, |
To firmaments of sun, |
To strange, bright crowds of flowers, |
And birds of foreign tongue! |
I say, as if this little flower |
To Eden wandered in -- |
What then? Why, nothing, only, |
Your inference therefrom! |
XI. |
THE OUTLET. |
My river runs to thee: |
Blue sea, wilt welcome me? |
My river waits reply. |
Oh sea, look graciously! |
I'll fetch thee brooks |
From spotted nooks, -- |
Say, sea, |
Take me! |
XII. |
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