MARK yon runnel how ’tis flowing,
Like a sylvan spirit dreaming
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WITH silent step behold her steal
Over those envious clouds that hid
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WHERE Beauty is smiling
With Love undenied,
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HOW few through Memory’s dreamy scope,
However resolute of hope,
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’TWAS night—and where a watery sound
Came moaning up the Flat,
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RISING and setting suns of Liberty—
Mountainous exploits and the wrecks thick strewn
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THERE’S a rare Soul of Poesy which may be
But concentrated by the chastened dreams
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I LOVE him so,
That though his face I ne’er might see,
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Disease was lurking in the cup!
Disastrous folly mantling there!
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MY beautiful! For beautiful thou art
To me thy father, as the morning light
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A HEAVY and desolate sense of life
Is all the Past makes mine—and still
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LOFTY and strenuous of sentiment
But narrow and partial in its scope and bent,
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HOW wonderful are dreams! If they but be
As some have said, the thin disjoining shades
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The loud, apt epithet, applying sure;
The dim-drawn image, artfully obscure;
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What is the true difference ’twixt Prose and Rhyme,
Since both may be beautiful, both be sublime?
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LONG ere I knew thee—years of loveless days—
A Shape would gather from my dreams and pour
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HER IMAGE haunts me. Lo! I muse at even,
And straight it gathers from the gloom to make
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A STREAMLET is a bright and beauteous creature
In some wide desert, where it keeps apart
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I VERSE a Settler’s Tale of the old times,—
One told me by our friend, the kindly sage,
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O SAY, if into sudden storm
Some future cloud we may not shun
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PALER, paler, day by day,
Waxeth wordless Eva Gray,
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(Outward Bound)
AWAY, away she plunges
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WE’LL PLANT a Tree of Liberty
In the centre of the land,
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TRUST and Treachery, Wisdom, Folly,
Madness, Mirth and Melancholy,
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O LIBERTY, yet build thee an august
And best abode in this most virgin clime;
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“’TIS nine o’clock:—to bed!” cried Egremont,
Who with his youthful household (for ’tis now
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HIS MIND alone is kingly who (though one)
But venerates of present things or past
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HOW beautiful that earliest burst of light
Which floodeth from the opening eyes of morn,
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Fit winding-sheet for thee Was the upheaving eternal sea,
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Like him who great reports of tilth rejects, Because his own is a most barren field,
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