And then reluctant turn—
My flowers raise their pretty lips—
Then put their nightgowns on.
As children caper when they wake
Merry that it is Morn—
My flowers from a hundred cribs
Will peep, and prance again.
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Or Bees, at Christmas show—So fairy—so fictitiousThe individuals doRepealed from observation—A Party that we knew—More distant in an instantThan Dawn in Timbuctoo.
His voice decrepit was with Joy –
How old the News of Love must beTo make Lips elderlyThat purled a moment since with Glee –Is it Delight or Woe –Or Terror – that do decorateThis livid interview –
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In the Stranger’s House—A first fair Going—When the Bells rejoice—A first Exchange—ofWhat hath mingled—been—For Lot—exhibited toFaith—alone—
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Were greater than itself—though HeMinutest of Mankind should be—And He—could reproduce the Sun—At period of going down—The Lingering—and the Stain—I mean—When Orient have been outgrownAnd Occident—become Unknown—His Name—remain—
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Whose maids upon remoter greenKeep their Seraphic May—And all day long, with dance and game,And gambol I may never name—Employ their holiday.Here to light measure, move the feetWhich walk no more the village street—Nor by the wood are found—Here are the birds that sought the sunWhen last year’s distaff idle hungAnd summer’s brows were bound.Ne’er…
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Better, to be found,If one care to, that is,The Fox fits the Hound—Good to know, and not tell,Best, to know and tell,Can one find the rare EarNot too dull—