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To see the day steal up the bay where the enemy lies in wait,

To run your ship to the harbor's lip and sink her across the strait:

But better the golden evening when the ships round heads for home, And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething foam,

And the people wait at the haven's gate to greet the men who win! Thank God for peace! Thank God for peace, when the great gray ships come in!

THE SYCOPHANTIC FOX AND THE GULLIBLE RAVEN1

A RAVEN sat upon a tree,
And not a word he spoke, for
His beak contained a piece of Brie,
Or, maybe, it was Roquefort:

We'll make it any kind you please
At all events, it was a cheese.

Beneath the tree's umbrageous limb
A hungry fox sat smiling;
He saw the raven watching him,
And spoke in words beguiling:
"J'admire," said he, "ton beau plu-
mage,"

(The which was simply persiflage).

Two things there are, no doubt you know,
To which a fox is used,

A rooster that is bound to crow,
A crow that's bound to roost,

And whichsoever he espies

He tells the most unblushing lies.

"Sweet fowl," he said, "I understand
You're more than merely natty:
I hear you sing to beat the band
And Adelina Patti.

Pray render with your liquid tongue
A bit from Götterdämmerung." "

This subtle speech was aimed to please
The crow, and it succeeded:
He thought no bird in all the trees
Could sing as well as he did.

In flattery completely doused,
He gave the "Jewel Song" from
"Faust."

But gravitation's law, of course,
As Isaac Newton showed it,
Exerted on the cheese its force,
And elsewhere soon bestowed it.
In fact, there is no need to tell
What happened when to earth it fell.

I blush to add that when the bird
Took in the situation

He said one brief, emphatic word,
Unfit for publication.

The fox was greatly startled, but
He only sighed and answered "Tut!”

THE MORAL is: A fox is bound

To be a shameless sinner.

And also: When the cheese comes round
You know it's after dinner.

But (what is only known to few)
The fox is after dinner, too.

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Then the wind smote full as the breath of Aiming at things for Heaven too high,
God,
Sure in the pride of life, in the richness of

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SING me a sweet, low song of night
Before the moon is risen,

A song that tells of the stars' delight

Escaped from day's bright prison,

A song that croons with the cricket's voice,
That sleeps with the shadowed trees,
A song that shall bid my heart rejoice
At its tender mysteries!

And then when the song is ended, love,
Bend down your head unto me,
Whisper the word that was born above
Ere the moon had swayed the sea;
Ere the oldest star began to shine,
Or the farthest sun to burn, -
The oldest of words, O heart of mine,
Yet newest, and sweet to learn.

MY ROSE

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