The Cambridge book of poetry and song . he bows it lolls so bluff, broad-shouldered calm. And when over breakers to leewardThe tattered surges are may keep our head to the its grip on the base of theMO rid. But, aftei the shipMreck. tell meAVhat help in its iron true to the broken down among sea-weed andooze? In the breaking gulfs of sorrow,When the helpless feet stretch outAnd find in the deeps of darknessNo footing so solid as doubt. Then better one spar of memory,One broken plank of the i) our human heart may cling
The Cambridge book of poetry and song . he bows it lolls so bluff, broad-shouldered calm. And when over breakers to leewardThe tattered surges are may keep our head to the its grip on the base of theMO rid. But, aftei the shipMreck. tell meAVhat help in its iron true to the broken down among sea-weed andooze? In the breaking gulfs of sorrow,When the helpless feet stretch outAnd find in the deeps of darknessNo footing so solid as doubt. Then better one spar of memory,One broken plank of the i) our human heart may cling hopeless of shore at last! To the spirit its splendid the flesh its sweet despair,Its tears oer the thin-worn locketWith its anguish of deathless hair! Immortal ? I feel it and know it,Who doubts it of such as she ?But tluit is the pangs verj secret;Immortal a^ay from me! Theres a narrow Iidge in the grave-yard Would scarce stay a child in hisrace, But to me and my thought, it is wider Than the star-sown vague of AUF WIEDER5EHEN. (TILL WE MEET AGAIN Page 351. I LOWELL. 851 Your logic, my friend, is uiorals most drearily true;But, siuce the earth clashed ou her coffin,I keep hearing that, and not you. Console if you will. 1 can bear it;Tis a well-meant alms of breath;But not all the preaching since AdamHas made death other than death. It is pagan; but wait till you feel it;That jar of our earth, that dull shockWhen the ploughshare of deeper pas-sionTears down to our primitive rock. Communion in spirit I Forgive me!But I, who am earthy and weak,AVoukl give all my incomes from dreamlandFor a touch of her hand on my cheek. That little shoe in the worn and wrinkled and brown,With its emptiness confutes jou,.\.nd argues your wisdom down. [From Under the Willoivs.]JUNE. Frank-hearted hostess of the field and wood,Gypsy, whose roof is every spreading tree,Jime is the pearl of our New England a surprisal, though expected
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1880, booksubjectenglishpoetry, bookye
