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When the south wind, in May days,
Hot midsummer's petted crone,
Aught unsavory or unclean
Succory to match the sky,
Wiser far than human seer,
Ralph Waldo Emerson,
FROM gold to gray
Our mild, sweet day
Above the sea Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's moon.
In its pale fire
The village spire
The painted walls
Whereon it falls Transfigured stand in marble trance.
John Greenleaf Whittier.
THE twilight is sad and cloudy,
The wind blows loud and free, And like the wings of seabirds
Flash the white caps of the sea.
But in the fisherman's cottage
There shines a ruddier light, And a little face at the window
Peers out into the night.
Close, close it is pressed to the window,
As if those childish eyes Were looking into the darkness
To see some form arise.
And a woman's waving shadow
Is passing to and fro, Now rising to the ceiling,
Now bowing and bending low.
What tale do the roaring ocean
And the night-wind, bleak and wild,
As they beat at the crazy casement,
Tell to that little child ?
And why do the roaring ocean,
And the night-wind, wild and bleak, As they beat at the heart of the mother, Drive the color from her cheek?
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
THE cock is crowing,
The lake doth glitter,
The oldest and youngest
Their heads never raising ;
Like an army defeated
On the top of the bare hill ;
There's joy on the mountains,
Blue sky prevailing,
ALEC YEATON'S SON
Gloucester, August, 1720.
And the white caps flecked the sea ;
“I had not my boy with me!”
Snug in the stern-sheets, little John
Laughed as the scud swept by ;
As he watched the wicked sky.
“ Would he were at his mother's side !"
And the skipper's eyes were dim. “Good Lord in heaven, if ill betide,
What would become of him !
“For me, my muscles are as steel,
For me let hap what may ;
Until the break o' day.
“ But he, he is so weak and small,
So young, scarce learned to stand, O pitying Father of us all,
I trust him in thy hand !
“For thou, who markest from on high
A sparrow's fall, each one !
On Alec Yeaton's n!”