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ur Descends to the moon. Through the vales to my love! Where the turf is so soft to the feet, And the thyme makes it sweet, And the stately foxglove Hangs silent its exquisite bells; And where water wells The greenness grows greener, And bulrushes stand Round a lily to screen her. Nevertheless, if this land, Like a garden to smell and to sight, Were turned to a desert of sand, Stripped bare of delight, All its best gone to worst, For my feet no repose, No water to comfort my thirst, And heaven like a furnace above,-- The desert would be As gushing of waters to me, The wilderness be as a rose, If it led me to thee, O my love! THE LOWEST ROOM. Like flowers sequestered from the sun And wind of summer, day by day I dwindled paler, whilst my hair Showed the first tinge of grey. "Oh, what is life, that we should live? Or what is death, that we must die? A bursting bubble is our life: I also, what am I?" "What is your grief? now tell me, sweet, That I may grieve," my sister said; And stayed a white embroidering hand And raised a golden head: Her tresses showed a richer mass, Her eyes looked softer than my own, Her figure had a statelier height, Her voice a tenderer tone. "Some must be second and not first; All cannot be the first of all: Is not this, too, but vanity? I stumble like to fall. "So yesterday I read the acts Of Hector and each clangorous king With wrathful great AEacides:-- Old Homer leaves a sting." The comely face looked up again, The deft hand lingered on the thread "Sweet, tell me what is Homer's sting, Old Homer's sting?" she said. "He stirs my sluggish pulse like wine, He melts me like the wind of spice, Strong as strong Ajax' red right hand, And grand like Juno's eyes. "I cannot melt the sons of men, I cannot fire and tempest-toss:-- Besides, those days were golden days, Whilst these are days of dross." She laughed a feminine low laugh, Yet did not stay her dexterous hand: "Now tell me of those days," she said, "When time ran golden sand." "Then men were men of might and right, Sheer might, at least,
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