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Among the many lives that I have known,
None I remember more serene and sweet,
More rounded in itself and more complete,
On The Terrace Of The Aigalades. (From The French Of Méry)
From this high portal, where upsprings
The rose to touch our hands in play,
We at a glance behold three things--
Flower-De-Luce: The Bridge Of Cloud
Burn, O evening hearth, and waken
Pleasant visions, as of old!
Though the house by winds be shaken,
Safe I keep this room of gold!
Beautiful valley! through whose verdant meads
Unheard the Garigliano glides along;--
The Liris, nurse of rushes and of reeds,
In The Harbour: Prelude
As treasures that men seek,
Deep buried in sea-sands,
Vanish if they but speak,
And elude their eager hands,
Castles In Spain. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fifth)
How much of my young heart, O Spain,
Went out to thee in days of yore!
What dreams romantic filled my brain,
And summoned back to life again
Death Of Archbishop Turpin. (From The French)
The Archbishop, whom God loved in high degree,
Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and free;
And then his cheek more ghastly grew and wan,
In The Harbour: To The Avon
Flow on, sweet river! like his verse
Who lies beneath this sculptured hearse;
Nor wait beside the churchyard wall
Delia. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fifth)
Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives,
When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives,
Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain,
The Venetian Gondolier
Here rest the weary oar! -- soft airs
Breathe out in the o'erarching sky;
And Night!-- sweet Night -- serenely wears

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6/21/2021 6:19:38 AM #