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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,
And the rock lay flat
On the turf, sprang gay
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,
Intrusting thus thy cause to me? Forbear.
With falsehood, — love, at last aware
So fit as thine to falter forth a sorrow:
If they knew any way to borrow
“ Which sigh wouldst mock, of all the sighs ? The one
So long escaping from lips starved and blue, That lasts while on her pallet-bed the nun
Stretches her length; her foot comes through The straw she shivers on;
5. “ You had not thought she was so tall: and spent,
Her shrunk lids open, her lean fingers shut Close, close, their sharp and livid nails indent
The clammy palm ; then all is mute : That way, the spirit went.
“Or wouldst thou rather that I understand
Thy will to help me ? — like the dog I found Once, pacing sad this solitary strand,
Who would not take my food, poor hound, But whined and licked my hand.”
All this, and more, comes from some young man's pride
Of power to see, — in failure and mistake, Relinquishment, disgrace, on every side,
Merely examples for his sake, Helps to his path untried :