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For a day and a night and a morrow,
That his strength might endure for a span With travail and heavy sorrow,
The holy spirit of man.
From the winds of the north and the south
They filled his body with life;
For the veils of the soul therein,
A time to serve and to sin;
And love, and a space for delight,
And night, and sleep in the night.
With his lips he travaileth;
In his eyes foreknowledge of death;
Sows, and he shall not reap;
Between a sleep and a sleep.
HOEKZEMA, Poetry. 4th Ed.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
(6 1794 – d 1878).
"THESE PRAIRIES GLOW WITH FLOWERS."
These prairies glow with flowers,
These groves are tall and fair, The sweet lay of the mocking-bird
Rings in the morning air; And yet I pine to see
My native hill once more, And hear the sparrow's friendly chirp
Beside its cottage-door.
And he, for whom I left
My native hill and brook, Alas, I sometimes think I trace
A coldness in his look! If I have lost his love,
I know my heart will break;
Will sorrow for my sake.
The moon is at her full, and, riding high,
Floods the calm fields with light; The airs that hover in the summer-sky
Are all asleep to-night.
There comes no voice from the great woodlands round
That murmured all the day,
Is not more still than they.
But ever heaves and moans the restless Deep;
His rising tides I hear,
I see them breaking near.
Each wave springs upward, climbing toward the fair
Pure light that sits on high – Springs eagerly, and faintly sinks, to where
The mother-waters lie.
Upward again it swells; the moonbeams show
Again its glimmering crest; Again it feels the fatal weight below,
And sinks, but not to rest.
Again and yet again; until the Deep
Recalls his brood of waves;
Back to his inner caves.
Brief respite! they shall rush from that recess
With noise and tumult soon,
Up toward the placid moon.
O restless Sea, that, in thy prison here,
Dost struggle and complain;
To that fair orb in vain;
The glorious source of light and heat must warm
Thy billows from on high, And change them to the cloudy trains that form
The curtain of the sky.
Then only may they leave the waste of brine
In which they welter here,
In a serener sphere.
These are the gardens of the Desert, these
Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not – ye have played
GEORGE PERKINS MORRIS.
(6 1802 – d 1864)
WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE!
Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
And I'll protect it now.
That placed it near his cot;
Thy axe shall harm it not!
That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown