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Not slower than Majesty moves, for a mean and a measure

Of motion, not faster than dateless Olympian leisure

Might pace with unblown ample garments from pleasure to pleasure, The wave-serrate sea-rim sinks unjarring, unreeling,

Forever revealing, revealing, revealing, Edgewise, bladewise, halfwise, whole wise, - 't is done!

Good-morrow, Lord Sun! With several voice, with ascription one, The woods and the marsh and the sea and my soul

Unto thee, whence the glittering stream of

all morrows doth roll,

Cry good and past good and most heavenly morrow, Lord Sun.

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In the magnet earth, yea, thou with a storm for a heart,

Rent with debate, many-spotted with question, part

From part oft sundered, yet ever a globed light,

Yet ever the artist, ever more large and bright

Than the eye of a man may avail of:

manifold One,

-

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DONALD

Henry Abbey

O WHITE, white, light moon, that sailest in the sky,

Look down upon the whirling world, for thou art up so high,

And tell me where my Donald is who sailed across the sea,

And make a path of silver light to lead him back to me.

O white, white, bright moon, thy cheek is coldly fair;

A little cloud beside thee seems thy wildly floating hair;

And if thou wouldst not have me wan, and pale, and cold like thee,

Go, make a mighty tide to draw my Donald back to me.

O light, white, bright moon, that dost so fondly shine,

There is not a lily in the world but hides its face from thine:

I too shall go and hide my face close in the dust from thee,

Unless with light and tide thou bring my Donald back to me.

WINTER DAYS

Now comes the graybeard of the north: The forests bare their rugged breasts To every wind that wanders forth,

And, in their arms, the lonely nests That housed the birdlings months ago Are egged with flakes of drifted snow.

No more the robin pipes his lay

To greet the flushed advance of morn; He sings in valleys far away; His heart is with the south to-day;

He cannot shrill among the corn: For all the hay and corn are down And garnered; and the withered leaf, Against the branches bare and brown, Rattles; and all the days are brief.

An icy hand is on the land;

The cloudy sky is sad and gray; But through the misty sorrow streams, Outspreading wide, a golden ray.

And on the brook that cuts the plain A diamond wonder is aglow, Fairer than that which, long ago, De Rohan staked a name to gain.

IN MEMORY OF GENERAL GRANT

WHITE wings of commerce sailing far,
Hot steam that drives the weltering
wheel,

Tamed lightning speeding on the wire,
Iron postman on the way of steel, -
These, circling all the world, have told
The loss that makes us desolate;
For we give back to dust this day

The God-sent man who saved the state.

When black the sky and dire with war, When every heart was wrung with fear, He rose serene, and took his place,

The great occasion's mighty peer. He smote armed opposition down, He bade the storm and darkness cease, And o'er the long-distracted land Shone out the smiling sun of peace.

The famous captains of the past

March in review before the mind: Some fought for glory, some for gold, But most to yoke and rule mankind. Not so the captain dead to-day,

For whom our half-mast banners wave: He fought to keep the Union whole, And break the shackles of the slave.

A silent man, in friendship true,

He made point-blank his certain aim, And, born a stranger to defeat,

To steadfast purpose linked his name: For while the angry flood of war

Surged down between its gloomy banks, He followed duty, with the mien

Of but a soldier in the ranks.

How well he wore white honor's flower,
The gratitude and praise of men,
As General, as President,

And then as simple citizen!
He was a hero to the end:

The dark rebellion raised by Death

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