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O soul most beautiful, and loving heart!
thy nest, Now soaring, sped by a divine unrest, How Nature speaks through thy perfected
Till all our soul and senses are possest,
And we must weep or smile at thy behest, And in thine ever changing mood take part, Like watchers on enchanted Mount, who see
Fair visions pass at a magician's call, The fairer for their cloud of mystery, —
Who feel the necromancer's spell and fall Entranced beneath its pow'r, nor would be
free, So deep the rapture and so sweet the thrall!
A MAZURKA OF CHOPIN
Play on, play on, the low lights wane,
So, softly, softly play!
For your fingers draw me away, away,
And dreamland comes again. Are you ’ware of little stars in a pale sky!
Play on, — and say no word! There is scarce the breath of a midnight sigh,
Or a frond of the fern-wood stirred; Was there ever a night so magic still?
Only a low moon is peeping
Through the sway of aspens sleeping, And a ripple frets the rushes in the rill: Are you 'ware of little feet upon the grass,
And the kissing of tiny kisses?
Blessed of the moon as this is!
Lifting the drowsy fold
For a look at the eyes of gold:
Cling light on the moony air, Rosy petals, a pardoned theft,
Are bound on the streaming hair ;Now round and round in a linking chain,
Round and round and away again!
ing, Keeping time to the glinting of the star; There's a glowworm for the lantern of their
loving, And wedding-bells are ringing where the
Can you hear their little voices? You would
Under that silver beam,
Sir Rennell Rodd.
When the great organs, answering each to
each, Joined with the violin's celestial speech, Then did it seem that all the heavenly host Gave praise to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost: We saw the archangels through the ether
winging; We heard their souls go forth in solemn sing
ing; Praise, praise to God,” they sang, “through
endless days, Praise to the Eternal One, and nought but
praise;" And as they sang the spirits of the dying Were upward borne from lips that ceased their
sighing; And dying was not death, but deeper living Living, and prayer, and praising and thanksgiving!
Richard Watson Gilder.
A dream of interlinking hands, of feet
Of branching lights sets off the changeful
charms Of glancing gems, rich stuffs, the dazzling
Of necks unkerchieft, and bare, clinging arms.
joice, The troubled sea's disconsolate, deep voice.
Who shall proclaim the golden fable false