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Of that bright island; where he feared to touch,
His spirit readventures; and for years,
Where by his wife he slumbers safe at home, Thoughts of that land revisit him; he sees The eternal mountains beckon, and awakes Yearning for that far home that might have been.
TO WILL. H. LOW
YOUTH now flees on feathered foot.
Faint and fainter sounds the flute,
Rarer songs of gods; and still
This is unborn beauty: she
Takes the sun and breaks the blue; -
Her wing in silver streams, and set
Coasting mountain clouds and kiss't
In wet wood and miry lane,
We have come the primrose way.
TO MRS. WILL. H. LOW
VEN in the bluest noonday of July,
There could not run the smallest breath of wind
But all the quarter sounded like a wood; And in the chequered silence and above The hum of city cabs that sought the Bois, Suburban ashes shivered into song.
A patter and a chatter and a chirp
And a long dying hiss it was as though Starched old brocaded dames through all the house
Had trailed a strident skirt, or the whole sky Even in a wink had over-brimmed in rain. Hark, in these shady parlours, how it talks Of the near autumn, how the smitten ash Trembles and augurs floods! O not too long In these inconstant latitudes delay,
O not too late from the unbeloved north Trim your escape! For soon shall this low