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Blue Wings

Warm whisp'ring through the slender olive leaves
Came to me a gentle sound,
Whis'pring of a secret found
In the clear sunshine 'mid the golden sheaves:

Said it was sleeping for me in the morn,
Called it gladness, called it joy,
Drew me on "Come hither, boy."
To where the blue wings rested on the corn.

I thought the gentle sound had whispered true
Thought the little heaven mine,
Leaned to clutch the thing divine,
And saw the blue wings melt within the blue!
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    Sping Comes Hither

    Spring comes hither
    Buds the rose ...
    Roses wither
    Sweet spring goes ...
    o ja là
    o ja là ...
    Would she carry me.

    Summer soars
    Wide-wing'd day ...
    White light pours
    Flies away ...
    o ja là
    o ja là ...
    Would he carry me.

    Soft winds blow
    Westward borne ...
    Onward go
    Towards the morn
    o ja là
    o ja là ...
    Would they carry me.

    Sweet birds sing
    o'er the graves
    Then take wing
    o'er the waves
    o ja là
    o ja là ...
    Would they carry me.
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      To Flush, My Dog

      Loving friend, the gift of one
      Who her own true faith has run
      Through thy lower nature,
      Be my benediction said
      With my hand upon thy head,
      Gentle fellow-creature!

      Like a lady's ringlets brown,
      Flow thy silken ears adown
      Either side demurely
      Of thy silver-suited breast
      Shining out from all the rest
      Of thy body purely.

      Darkly brown thy body is,
      Till the sunshine striking this
      Alchemise its dullness,
      When the sleek curls manifold
      Flash all over into gold
      With a burnished fulness.

      Underneath my stroking hand,
      Startled eyes of hazel bland
      Kindling, growing larger,
      Up thou leapest with a spring,
      Full of prank and curveting,
      Leaping like a charger.

      Leap! Thy broad tail waves a light,
      Leap! Thy slender feet are bright,
      Canopied in fringes;
      Leap! Those tasselled ears of thine
      Flicker strangely, fair and fine
      Down their golden inches

      Yet, my pretty, sportive friend,
      Little is't to such an end
      That I praise thy rareness;
      Other dogs may be thy peers
      Haply in these drooping ears
      And this glossy fairness.

      But of thee it shall be said,
      This dog watched beside a bed
      Day and night unweary,
      Watched within a curtained room
      Where no sunbeam brake the gloom
      Round the sick and dreary.

      Roses, gathered for a vase,
      In that chamber died apace,
      Beam and breeze resigning;
      This dog only, waited on,
      Knowing that when light is gone
      Love remains for shining.

      Other dogs in thymy dew
      Tracked the hares and followed through
      Sunny moor or meadow;
      This dog only, crept and crept
      Next a languid cheek that slept,
      Sharing in the shadow.

      Other dogs of loyal cheer
      Bounded at the whistle clear,
      Up the woodside hieing;
      This dog only, watched in reach
      Of a faintly uttered speech
      Or a louder sighing.

      And if one or two quick tears
      Dropped upon his glossy ears
      Or a sigh came double,
      Up he sprang in eager haste,
      Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,
      In a tender trouble.

      And this dog was satisfied
      If a pale thin hand would glide
      Down his dewlaps sloping,
      Which he pushed his nose within,
      After, -  - platforming his chin
      On the palm left open.

      This dog, if a friendly voice
      Call him now to blither choice
      Than such chamber-keeping,
      "Come out!" Praying from the door,
      Presseth backward as before,
      Up against me leaping.

      Therefore to this dog will I,
      Tenderly not scornfully,
      Render praise and favor:
      With my hand upon his head,
      Is my benediction said
      Therefore and for ever.

      And because he loves me so,
      Better than his kind will do
      Often man or woman,
      Give I back more love again
      Than dogs often take of men,
      Leaning from my Human.

      Blessings on thee, dog of mine,
      Pretty collars make thee fine,
      Sugared milk make fat thee!
      Pleasures wag on in thy tail,
      Hands of gentle motion fail
      Nevermore, to pat thee

      Downy pillow take thy head,
      Silken coverlid bestead,
      Sunshine help thy sleeping!
      No fly's buzzing wake thee up,
      No man break thy purple cup
      Set for drinking deep in.

      Whiskered cats arointed flee,
      Sturdy stoppers keep from thee
      Cologne distillations;
      Nuts lie in thy path for stones,
      And thy feast-day macaroons
      Turn to daily rations!

      Mock I thee, in wishing weal?
      Tears are in my eyes to feel
      Thou art made so straitly,
      Blessing needs must straiten too,
      Little canst thou joy or do,
      Thou who lovest greatly.

      Yet be blessed to the height
      Of all good and all delight
      Pervious to thy nature;
      Only loved beyond that line,
      With a love that answers thine,
      Loving fellow-creature!
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        The Sorrow Of Love

        A pity beyond all telling
        Is hid in the heart of love:
        The folk who are buying and selling,
        The clouds on their journey above,
        The cold wet winds ever blowing,
        And the shadowy hazel grove
        Where mouse-grey waters are flowing,
        Threaten the head that I love.
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          Bright, O Bright Fedalma

          Maiden crowned with glossy blackness,
          Lithe as panther forest-roaming,
          Long-armed Naiad when she dances
          On a stream of ether floating,
          Bright, o bright Fedalma!

          Form all curves like softness drifted,
          Wave-kissed marble roundly dimpling,
          Far-off music slowly wingèd,
          Gently rising, gently sinking,
          Bright, o bright Fedalma!

          Pure as rain-tear on a rose-leaf,
          Cloud high born in noonday spotless
          Sudden perfect like the dew-bead,
          Gem of earth and sky begotten,
          Bright, o bright Fedalma!

          Beauty has no mortal father,
          Holy light her form engendered,
          Out of tremor yearning, gladness,
          Presage sweet, and joy remembered,
          Child of light! Child of light!
          Child of light, Fedalma!
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            The Groom's Story

            Ten mile in twenty minutes! 'E done it, sir. That's true.
            The big bay 'orse in the further stall--the one wot's next to you.
            I've seen some better 'orses; I've seldom seen a wuss,
            But 'e 'olds the bloomin' record, an'that's good enough for us.

            We knew as it was in' im. 'E's thoroughbred, three part,
            We bought 'im for to race 'im, but we found 'e 'ad no 'eart;
            For "e was sad and thoughtful, and amazin" dignified,
            It seemed a kind ò liberty to drive 'im or to ride;

            For 'e never seemed a-thinkin' of what 'e 'ad to do.
            But 'is thoughts was set on 'igher things, admirin' of the view.
            'E looked a puffect pictur, and a pictur 'e would stay,
            'e wouldn't even switch 'is tail to drive the flies away.

            And yet we knew 'twas in' im; we knew as 'e could fly;
            But what we couldn't get at was 'ow to make 'im try.
            We'd almost turned the job up, until at last one day,
            We got the last yard out of "m in a most amazin" way.

            It was all along ò master; which master 'as the name
            Of a reg'lar true blue sportsman, an'always acts the same;
            But we all 'as weaker moments, which master 'e 'ad one,
            An''e went and bought a motor-car when motor-cars begun.

            I seed it in the stable yard--it fairly turned me sick--
            a greasy, wheezy, engine as can neither buck nor kick.
            You've a screw to drive it forard, and a screw to make it stop,
            For it was foaled in a smithy stove an'bred in a blacksmith's shop.

            It didn't want no stable, it didn't ask no groom,
            It didn't need no nothin' but a bit ò standin' room.
            Just fill it up with paraffin an'it would go all day,
            Which the same should be agin the law if I could 'ave my way.

            Well, master took 'is motor-car, an'moted 'ere an'there,
            a frightenin' the 'orses an'a poisenin' the air.
            'E wore a bloomin' yachtin' cap, but Lor! --what _did_ 'e know,
            Excep'that if you turn a screw the thing would stop or go?

            An'then one day it wouldn't go. 'E screwed and screwed again
            But somethin' jammed, an'there 'e stuck in the mud of a country lane.
            It 'urt 'is pride most cruel, but what was 'e to do?
            So at last 'e bade me fetch a 'orse to pull the motor through.

            This was the 'orse we fetched 'im; an'when we reached the car,
            We braced 'im tight and proper to the middle of the bar,
            And buckled up 'is traces and lashed them to each side,
            While 'e 'eld 'is 'ead so 'aughtily, an'looked most dignified.

            Not bad tempered, mind you, but kind of pained and vexed,
            And 'e seemed to say, 'Well, blì me! Wot _will_ they ask me next?
            I've put up with some liberties, but this caps all by far,
            To be assistant engine to a crocky motor car! '

            Well, master, "e was in the car, a-fiddlin" with the gear,
            An'the 'orse was meditatin', an'I was standin' near,
            When master 'e touched somethin'--what it was we'll never know--
            But it sort ò spurred the boiler up and made the engine go.

            "Old 'ard, old gal! ' says master, and 'Gently then! ' says I,
            But an engine wont 'eed coaxin' an'it ain' t no use to try;
            So first 'e pulled a lever, an'then 'e turned a screw,
            But the thing kept crawlin' forrard spite of all that 'e could do.

            And first it went quite slowly, and the 'orse went also slow,
            But 'e 'ad to buck up faster when the wheels began to go;
            For the car kept crowdin' on 'im and buttin''im along,
            An'in less than 'alf a minute, sir, that 'orse was goin' strong.

            At first 'e walked quite dignified, an'then 'e had to trot,
            And then 'e tried to canter when the pace became too 'ot.
            'E looked 'is very 'aughtiest, as if 'e didn't mind,
            And all the time the motor-car was pushin''im be'ind.

            Now, master lost 'is 'ead when 'e found 'e couldn't stop,
            And 'e pulled a valve or somethin' an'somethin' else went pop,
            An'somethin' else went fizzywig, an'in a flash or less,
            That blessed car was goin' like a limited express.

            Master 'eld the steerin' gear, an'kept the road all right,
            And away they whizzed and clattered--my aunt! It was a sight.
            'E seemed the finest draught 'orse as ever lived by far,
            For all the country Juggins thought 'twas 'im wot pulled the car.

            'E was stretchin' like a grey'ound, 'e was goin' all 'e knew,
            But it bumped an'shoved be'ind 'im, for all that 'e could do;
            It butted 'im and boosted 'im an'spanked 'im on a'ead,
            Till 'e broke the ten-mile record, same as I already said.

            Ten mile in twenty minutes! 'E done it, sir. That's true.
            The only time we ever found what that 'ere 'orse could do.
            Some say it wasn't 'ardly fair, and the papers made a fuss,
            But 'e broke the ten-mile record, and that's good enough for us.

            You see that 'orse's tail, sir? You don't! No more do we,
            Which really ain' t surprisin', for 'e 'as no tail to see;
            That engine wore it off 'im before master made it stop,
            And all the road was litter'd like a bloomin' barber's shop.

            And master? Well, it cured 'im. 'E altered from that day,
            And come back to 'is 'orses in the good old-fashioned way.
            And if you wants to git the sack, the quickest way by far,
            Is to 'int as 'ow you think 'e ought to keep a motorcar.
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              A Prayer For My Daughter

              An intellectual hatred is the worst,
              So let her think opinions are accursed.
              Have I not seen the loveliest woman born
              Out of the mouth of plenty's horn,
              Because of her opinionated mind
              Barter that horn and every good
              By quiet natures understood
              For an old bellows full of angry wind?
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                Religio Medici

                God's own best will bide the test
                And God's own worst will fall;
                But, best or worst or last or first,
                He ordereth it all.

                For all is good, if understood,
                (Ah, could we understand!)
                And right and ill are tools of skill
                Held in His either hand.

                The harlot and the anchorite,
                The martyr and the rake,
                Deftly He fashions each aright,
                Its vital part to take.

                Wisdom He makes to form the fruit
                Where the high blossoms be;
                And Lust to kill the weaker shoot,
                And srink to trim the tree.

                And Holiness that so the bole
                Be solid at the core;
                And Plague and Fever, that the whole
                Be changing evermore.

                He strews the microbes in the lung,
                The blood-clot in the brain;
                With test and test He picks the best,
                Then test them once again.

                He tests the body and the mind,
                He rings them o'er and o'er;
                And if they crack, He throws them back,
                And fashions them once more.

                He chokes the infant throat with slime,
                He sets the ferment free;
                He builds the tiny tube of lime
                That blocks the artery.

                He lets the youthful dreamer store
                Great projects in his brain,
                Until He drops the fungus spore
                That smears them out again.

                He stores the milk that feeds the babe,
                He dulls the tortured nerve;
                He gives a hundred joys of sense
                Where few or none might serve.

                And still He trains the branch of good
                Where the high blossoms be,
                And wieldeth still the shears of ill
                To prune and prune His tree.
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