What would'st thou have for easement after grief, When the 
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With loitering step and quiet eye, Beneath the low November sky,
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From where I sit, I see the stars, And down the chilly floor
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Not to be conquered by these headlong days, But to stand free: to keep the mind at brood
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The leafless forests slowly yield To the thick-driving snow. A little while
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Not, not for thee, Belovèd child, the burning grasp of life
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Beside the pounding cataracts Of midnight streams unknown to us
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From upland slopes I see the cows file by, Lowing, great-chested, down the homeward trail,
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To-night the very horses springing by Toss gold from whitened nostrils. In a dream
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We have not heard the music of the spheres, The song of star to star, but there are sounds
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A moment the wild swallows like a flight
Of withered gust-caught leaves, serenely high,
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The world in gloom and splendour passes by, And thou in the midst of it with brows that gleam,
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Broad shadows fall. On all the mountain side
The scythe-swept fields are silent. Slowly home
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The glittering roofs are still with frost; each worn
Black chimney builds into the quiet sky
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The frost that stings like fire upon my cheek, The loneliness of this forsaken ground,
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I saw the city's towers on a luminous pale-gray sky; Beyond 
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Under the day-long sun there is life and mirth &nbs
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Heavy with haze that merges and melts free
Into the measureless depth on either hand,
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Here the dead sleep--the quiet dead. No sound Disturbs them ever, and no storm dismays.
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Far in the grim Northwest beyond the lines That turn the rivers eastward to the sea,
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Dear dark-brown waters full of all the stain Of sombre spruce-woods and the forest fens,
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Far above us where a jay
Screams his matins to the day,
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The darkness brings no quiet here, the light
No waking: ever on my blinded brain
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From plains that reel to southward, dim,
The road runs by me white and bare;
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Out of the gray northwest, where many a day gone by &
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In the silent depth of space,
Immeasurably old, immeasurably far,
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Fair little scout, that when the iron year
Changes, and the first fleecy clouds deploy,
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'Tis a land where no hurricane falls,
But the infinite azure regards
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Where swallows and wheatfields are,
O hamlet brown and still,
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O differing human heart,
Why is it that I tremble when thine eyes,
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