has been our fellow, the morning of our days;
Us he chose for housemates, and this way went.
And song and blood are pure,
The day is never darkend
That had thee here obscure.
MARK where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like,
Its skeleton shadow on the broad-backd
Here is a fitting spot to dig Loves grave;
Here where the ponderous breakers plunge and strike,
dart their hissing tongues high up the sand:
In hearing of the ocean, and in sight
Of those ribbd wind-
streaks running into white.
If I the death of Love had deeply plannd,
I never could have made it half so
As by the unblest kisses which upbraid
The full-waked sense; or failing that, degrade;
Tis morning: but
no morning can restore
What we have forfeited. I see no sin:
The wrong is mixd. In tragic life, God wot,
villain need be! Passions spin the plot:
We are betrayd by what is false within.
ON a starrd night Prince Lucifer uprose.
Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend
the rolling ball in cloud part screend,
Where sinners huggd their spectre of repose.
Poor prey to his hot
fit of pride were those.
And now upon his western wing he leand,
Now his huge bulk oer Africs sands
Now the black planet shadowd Arctic snows.
Soaring through wider zones that prickd his scars
memory of the old revolt from Awe,
He reachd a middle height, and at the stars,
Which are the brain of
heaven, he lookd, and sank.
Around the ancient track marchd, rank on rank,
The army of unalterable law.
A WIND sways the pines,
Not a breath of wild air;
Still as the mosses that glow
the flooring and over the lines
Of the roots here and there.
The pine-tree drops its dead;
They are quiet, as under the sea.
life in a race,
As the clouds the clouds chase;
And we go,
And we drop like the fruits of the tree,
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