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The breezes brought dejected lutes,
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And bathed them in the glee;
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The East put out a single flag,
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And signed the fete away.
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XII.
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PSALM OF THE DAY.
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A something in a summer's day,
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As slow her flambeaux burn away,
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Which solemnizes me.
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A something in a summer's noon, --
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An azure depth, a wordless tune,
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Transcending ecstasy.
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And still within a summer's night
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A something so transporting bright,
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I clap my hands to see;
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Then veil my too inspecting face,
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Lest such a subtle, shimmering grace
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Flutter too far for me.
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The wizard-fingers never rest,
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The purple brook within the breast
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Still chafes its narrow bed;
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Still rears the East her amber flag,
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Guides still the sun along the crag
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His caravan of red,
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Like flowers that heard the tale of dews,
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But never deemed the dripping prize
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Awaited their low brows;
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Or bees, that thought the summer's name
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Some rumor of delirium
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No summer could for them;
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Or Arctic creature, dimly stirred
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By tropic hint, -- some travelled bird
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Imported to the wood;
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Or wind's bright signal to the ear,
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Making that homely and severe,
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Contented, known, before
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The heaven unexpected came,
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To lives that thought their worshipping
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A too presumptuous psalm.
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XIII.
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THE SEA OF SUNSET.
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This is the land the sunset washes,
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These are the banks of the Yellow Sea;
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Where it rose, or whither it rushes,
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These are the western mystery!
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Night after night her purple traffic
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Strews the landing with opal bales;
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Merchantmen poise upon horizons,
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Dip, and vanish with fairy sails.
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XIV.
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PURPLE CLOVER.
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There is a flower that bees prefer,
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And butterflies desire;
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To gain the purple democrat
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The humming-birds aspire.
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And whatsoever insect pass,
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A honey bears away
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Proportioned to his several dearth
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And her capacity.
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Her face is rounder than the moon,
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And ruddier than the gown
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Of orchis in the pasture,
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Or rhododendron worn.
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She doth not wait for June;
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Before the world is green
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Her sturdy little countenance
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Against the wind is seen,
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Contending with the grass,
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Near kinsman to herself,
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For privilege of sod and sun,
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Sweet litigants for life.
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And when the hills are full,
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And newer fashions blow,
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Doth not retract a single spice
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For pang of jealousy.
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