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You were just weak earth, I knew :
But a little good grain too.
And such as you were, I took you for mine :
Did not you find me yours,
Would flow, as the Book assures ?
Well, and if none of these good things came,
What did the failure prove ? The man was my whole world, all the same, With his flowers to praise, or his weeds to blame,
And, either or both, to love.
Yet this turns now to a fault—there! there!
That I do love, watch too long,
Fit subject for some new song :
How the light, light love, he has wings to fly
At suspicion of a bond : How my wisdom has bidden your pleasure good-bye, Which will turn up next in a laughing eye,
And why should you look beyond ?
ON THE CLIFF.
I leaned on the turf,
2. And the rock lay flat As an anvil's face: No iron like that! Baked dry; of a weed, of a shell, no trace : Sunshine outside, but ice at the core, Death’s altar by the lone shore.
3. On the turf, sprang gay With his films of blue, No cricket, I'll say, But a warhorse, barded and chanfroned too, The gift of a quixote-mage to his knight, Real fairy, with wings all right.
On the rock, they scorch
Is it not so
UNDER THE CLIFF.
“Still ailing, Wind ? Wilt be appeased or no ?
Which needs the other's office, thou or I ? Dost want to be disburthened of a woe,
And can, in truth, my voice untie Its links, and let it go ?
“Art thou a dumb, wronged thing that would be righted,
Entrusting thus thy cause to me? Forbear.
With falsehood, love, at last aware
“We have them; but I know not any tone
So fit as thine to falter forth a sorrow :
If they knew any way to borrow