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In globèd clusters,

In tumbling clusters, like swarthy grapes, Round thy brow and thine ears o'ershaden; With the burning darkness of eyes like pansies, Like velvet pansies Where through escapes

The splendid might of thy conflagrate fancies;
With robe gold-tawny not hiding the shapes
Of the feet whereunto it falleth down,
Thy naked feet unsandalled;

With robe gold-tawny that does not veil
Feet where the red

Is meshed in the brown,

Like a rubied sun in a Venice-sail.

FRANCIS THOMPSON—A Corymbus for Autumn. St. 2.

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Awkward, embarrassed, stiff, without the skill
Of moving gracefully or standing still,
One leg, as if suspicious of his brother,
Desirous seems to run away from t'other.
CHURCHILL-Rosciad. L. 438.


What's a fine person, or a beauteous face,
Unless deportment gives them decent grace?
Blessed with all other requisites to please,
Some want the striking elegance of ease;

The curious eye their awkward movement tires:
They seem like puppets led about by wires.
CHURCHILL-Rosciad. L. 741.


God may forgive sins, he said, but awkwardness has no forgiveness in heaven or earth. EMERSON Society and Solitude.


With ridiculous and awkward action,

Which, slanderer, he imitation calls.

Troilus and Cressida. Act I. Sc. 3. L. 149.

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Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green;
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar
Twined amorous round the raptured scene.
BURNS-To Mary in Heaven.


Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those.
The bursting tears my heart declare;
Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr.
BURNS-The Banks of Ayr.

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And in the woods a fragrance rare

Of wild azaleas fills the air,

And richly tangled overhead

We see their blossoms sweet and red.

DORA READ GOODALE Spring Scatters Far and Wide.


The fair azalea bows

Beneath its snowy crest.

SARAH H. WHITMAN-She Blooms no More.

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And moor herself within my room-
My daughter! O my daughter!
G. W. CABLE-The New Arrival.


Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps; Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps; She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes. CAMPBELL Pleasures of Hope. Pt. I. L. 225.


He is so little to be so large!

Why, a train of cars, or a whale-back barge Couldn't carry the freight

Of the monstrous weight

Of all of his qualities, good and great.
And tho' one view is as good as another,
Don't take my word for it. Ask his mother!


"The hand that rocks the cradle"-but there is no such hand.

It is bad to rock the baby, they would have us understand;

So the cradle's but a relic of the former foolish days,

When mothers reared their children in unscientific ways;

When they jounced them and they bounced them, those poor dwarfs of long ago— The Washingtons and Jeffersons and Adamses, you know.

Ascribed to BISHOP DOANE-What Might Have Been. A complaint that for hygienic reasons, he was not allowed to play with his grandchild in the old-fashioned way. (See also WALLACE under MOTHERHOOD)

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