Poems, Volume 4

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Page 37 - Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge- — That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture!
Page 26 - Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints...
Page 36 - God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, One to show a woman when he loves her!
Page 144 - Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan! Piercing sweet by the river! Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! The sun on the hill forgot to die, And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly Came back to dream on the river. Yet half a beast is the great god Pan To laugh as he sits by the river, Making a poet out of a man: The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, — For the reed which grows nevermore again As a reed with the reeds in the river.
Page 142 - WHAT was he doing, the great god Pan, Down in the reeds by the river? Spreading ruin and scattering ban, Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, And breaking the golden lilies afloat • With the dragon-fly on the river? He tore out a reed, the great god Pan...
Page 186 - Ancona was free!" And some one came out of the cheers in the street, With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. My Guido was dead! I fell down at his feet, While they cheered in the street.
Page 142 - He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, From the deep, cool bed of the river; The limpid water turbidly ran, And the broken lilies a-dying lay, And the dragon-fly had fled away Ere he brought it out of the river.
Page 187 - And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, Writ now but in one hand. I was not to faint. One loved me for two — would be with me ere long : And " Viva Italia" he died for, our saint, Who forbids our complaint.
Page 136 - No bird am I, to sing in June, And dare not ask an equal boon. Good nests and berries red are Nature's To give away to better creatures, — And yet my days go on, go on.
Page 187 - Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta: — Shot. Tell his mother. Ah, ah, "his," "their" mother, — not "mine," No voice says "My mother

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