Nathan Haskell Dole Poems

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A Russian Fantasy

O’er the yellow crocus on the lawn
Floats a light white butterfly.
Breezes waft it! See, ’t is gone!
Duska, little soul, when didst thou die?


Saturnian mother! why dost thou devour
Thy offspring, who by loving thee are curst?
Why must they fear thee who would fain be first

The Mirage

Across the Bay are low-lying cliffs,
Where stand fishermen's cottages:
I can barely distinguish them with the naked eye.

The Vision Of Peace

O, beautiful Vision of Peace,
Beam bright in the eyes of Man!
The host of the meek shall increase,
The Prophets are leading the van.

To An Imperilled Traveller

Unflinching Dante of a later day,
Thou who hast wandered through the realms of pain
And seen with aching breast and whirling brain

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