ise to you,
Skilled to pull wires, he baffles Nature's hope,
Sleep is Death's image,--poets tell us so,
So dreamy-soft the notes, so far away,
Some sort of heart I know is hers,
Sometimes come pauses of calm, when the rapt bard, holding his heart back,
Somewhere in India, upon a time,
Spirit, that rarely comest now,
Still thirteen years: 'tis autumn now,
Stood the tall Archangel weighing,
Strong, simple, silent are the [steadfast] laws,
Swiftly the politic goes: is it dark?--he borrows a lantern,

Thank God, he saw you last in pomp of May,
Thanks to the artist, ever on my wall,
That's a rather bold speech, my Lord Bacon,
The Bardling came where by a river grew,
The century numbers fourscore years,
The cordage creaks and rattles in the wind,
The dandelions and buttercups,
The electric nerve, whose instantaneous thrill,
The fire is burning clear and blithely,
The hope of Truth grows stronger, day by day,
The little gate was reached at last,
The love of all things springs from love of one,
The Maple puts her corals on in May,
The misspelt scrawl, upon the wall,
The moon shines white and silent,
The New World's sons, from England's breasts we drew,
The next whose fortune 'twas a tale to tell,
The night is dark, the stinging sleet,
The old Chief, feeling now wellnigh his end,
The path from me to you that led,
The pipe came safe, and welcome too,
The rich man's son inherits lands,
The same good blood that now refills,
The sea is lonely, the sea is dreary,
The snow had begun in the gloaming,
The tower of old Saint Nicholas soared upward to the skies,
The wind is roistering out of doors,
The wisest man could ask no more of Fate,
The world turns mild; democracy, they say,
There are who triumph in a losing cause,
There came a youth upon the earth,
There lay upon the ocean's shore,
There never yet was flower fair in vain,
Therefore think not the Past is wise alone,
These pearls of thought in Persian gulfs were bred,
These rugged, wintry days I scarce could bear,
They pass me by like shadows, crowds on crowds,
Thick-rushing, like an ocean vast,
This is the midnight of the century,--hark!
This kind o' sogerin' aint a mite like our October trainin',
This little blossom from afar,
Thou look'dst on me all yesternight,
Thou wast the fairest of all man-made things,
Though old the thought and oft exprest,
Thrash away, you'll _hev_ to rattle,
Through suffering and sorrow thou hast passed,
Thy love thou sentest oft to