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Yet so revolves the axle of the world,
And by that brief aversion wheels us round
To morn, and rolls us on the larger paths
Of annual duty. Thou observant moon,
That dancest round the seasonable earth
As David round the ark, but half thy ring
In process, yet, complete, the circular whole
Promotes thee, and expedes thy right advance,
And all thy great desire of summer signs.
And thou, O sun, our centre, who thyself
Art satellite, and, conscious of the far
Archelion, in obedience of free will

ΙΟ

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O God, before Whom We marshal thus Thy legioned works to take The secret of Thy counsel, and array Congress and progress, and, with multitude As conquerors and to conquer, in consent Of universal law, approach Thy bound, Thine immemorial bound, and at Thy face Heaven and earth flee away; O Thou Lord God, Whether, O absolute existence, Thou, The Maker, makest, and this fair we see Be but the mote and dust of that unseen Unsought unsearchable; or whether Thou Whose goings forth are from of old, around Thy going, in mere effluence, without care, Breathest creation out into the cold Beyond Thee, and, within Thine ambient breath, So walkest everlasting as we walk

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ΙΟ

To mine, and, clasp'd, they tread the equal lea
To the same village-school, where side by side
They spell "our Father." Hard by, the twin-pride
Of that grey hall whose ancient oriel gleams
Thro' yon baronial pines, with looks of light
Our sister-mothers sit beneath one tree.
Meanwhile our Shakespeare wanders past and
dreams

His Helena and Hermia. Shall we fight?

Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us! O ye
Who north or south, on east or western land,
Native to noble sounds, say truth for truth,
Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God
For God; O ye who in eternal youth
Speak with a living and creative flood
This universal English, and do stand

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Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,
No wrought flowers did adorn,
But a white rose of Mary's gift,

For service meetly worn;

Her hair that lay along her back
Was yellow like ripe corn.

Her seemed she scarce had been a day

One of God's choristers;

The wonder was not yet quite gone

From that still look of hers; Albeit, to them she left, her day Had counted as ten years.

(To one, it is ten years of years.

Yet now, and in this place,
Surely she leaned o'er me - her hair
Fell all about my face.
Nothing: the autumn fall of leaves.
The whole year sets apace.)

It was the rampart of God's house
That she was standing on;

By God built over the sheer depth
The which is Space begun;

So high, that looking downward thence
She scarce could see the sun.

It lies in Heaven, across the flood
Of ether, as a bridge.

Beneath, the tides of day and night

With flame and darkness ridge The void, as low as where this earth Spins like a fretful midge.

Around her, lovers, newly met

'Mid deathless love's acclaims, Spoke evermore among themselves Their heart-remembered names; And the souls mounting up to God Went by her like thin flames.

And still she bowed herself and stooped
Out of the circling charm;

Until her bosom must have made
The bar she leaned on warm,
And the lilies lay as if asleep

Along her bended arm.

From the fixed place of Heaven she saw Time like a pulse shake fierce

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Fluttering far down the gulf; and now
She spoke through the still weather.
Her voice was like the voice the stars
Had when they sang together.

(Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird's song, Strove not her accents there,

Fain to be hearkened? When those bells
Possessed the mid-day air,
Strove not her steps to reach my side
Down all the echoing stair?)

"I wish that he were come to me,
For he will come," she said.
"Have I not prayed in Heaven?

Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd?

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on earth,

Are not two prayers a perfect strength? And shall I feel afraid?

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When round his head the aureole clings,

And he is clothed in white,

Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads Bowed with their aureoles:

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The cloud's not danced out of my brain,
The cloud that made it turn and swim
While hour by hour the books grew dim.
Why, Jenny, as I watch you there,
For all your wealth of loosened hair,
Your silk ungirdled and unlac'd,
And warm sweets open to the waist,
All golden in the lamplight's gleam,
You know not what a book you seem,
Half-read by lightning in a dream!
How should you know, my Jenny? Nay,
And I should be ashamed to say:
Poor beauty, so well worth a kiss!

But while my thought runs on like this
With wasteful whims more than enough,
I wonder what you're thinking of.

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On sorry matters best unsolved? —
Or inly is each grace revolved
To fit me with a lure?—or (sad
To think!) perhaps you're merely glad
That I'm not drunk or ruffianly,
And let you rest upon my knee.

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For sometimes, were the truth confess'd, You're thankful for a little rest, Glad from the crush to rest within, From the heart-sickness and the din Where envy's voice at virtue's pitch Mocks you because your gown is rich; And from the pale girl's dumb rebuke, Whose ill-clad grace and toil-worn look Proclaim the strength that keeps her weak, And other nights than yours bespeak; And from the wise unchildish elf, To schoolmate lesser than himself, Pointing you out, what thing you are:Yes, from the daily jeer and jar, From shame and shame's outbraving too, Is rest not sometimes sweet to you? But most from the hatefulness of man Who spares not to end what he began, Whose acts are ill and his speech ill, Who, having used you at his will, Thrusts you aside, as when I dine

I serve the dishes and the wine.

Well, handsome Jenny mine, sit up, I've filled our glasses, let us sup, And do not let me think of you,

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Lest shame of yours suffice for two.

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What, still so tired? Well, well then, keep
Your head there, so you do not sleep;
But that the weariness may pass
And leave you merry, take this glass.
Ah! lazy lily hand, more bless'd
If ne'er in rings it had been dress'd
Nor ever by a glove conceal'd!

Behold the lilies of the field, They toil not neither do they spin; (So doth the ancient text begin, Not of such rest as one of these Can share.) Another rest and ease Along each summer-sated path From its new lord the garden hath, Than that whose spring in blessings ran Which praised the bounteous husbandman, Ere yet, in days of hankering breath, The lilies sickened unto death.

What, Jenny, are your lilies dead? Aye, and the snow-white leaves are spread

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Jenny, you know the city now.
A child can tell the tale there, how
Some things which are not yet enroll'd
In market-lists are bought and sold
Even till the early Sunday light,
When Saturday night is market-night
Everywhere, be it dry or wet,
And market-night in the Haymarket.
Our learned London children know,
Poor Jenny, all your pride and woe;
Have seen your lifted silken skirt
Advertise dainties through the dirt;

Have seen your coach-wheels splash rebuke
On virtue; and have learned your look

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Shall find the best and hold it dear:

The unconquered mirth turn quieter

Not through her own, through others' woe:
The conscious pride of beauty glow
Beside another's pride in her,
One little part of all they share.
For Love himself shall ripen these
In a kind soil to just increase
Through years of fertilizing peace.

Of the same lump (as it is said) For honour and dishonour made, Two sister vessels. Here is one.

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so fall'n! How dare to think Of the first common kindred link? Yet, Jenny, till the world shall burn It seems that all things take their turn; And who shall say but this fair tree May need, in changes that may be, Your children's children's charity?

Scorned then, no doubt, as you are scorn'd! Shall no man hold his pride forewarn'd

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