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All made up of the lily and rose

That blow by night, when the season is good,

To the sound of dancing music and flutes :

It is only flowers, they had no fruits,

And I almost fear they are not roses, but blood; For the keeper was one, so full of pride,

He linkt a dead man there to a spectral bride; For he, if he had not been a Sultan of brutes,

Would he have that hole in his side?


But what will the old man say?

He laid a cruel snare in a pit

To catch a friend of mine one stormy day;

Yet now I could even weep to think of it;

For what will the old man say

When he comes to the second corpse in the pit?


Friend, to be struck by the public foe,

Then to strike him and lay him low,

That were a public merit, far,

Whatever the Quaker holds, from sin;

But the red life spilt for a private blow----
I swear to you, lawful and lawless war
Are scarcely even akin.


O me, why have they not buried me deep enough? Is it kind to have made me a grave so rough,

Me, that was never a quiet sleeper?

Maybe still I am but half-dead;

Then I cannot be wholly dumb;

I will cry to the steps above my head,

And somebody, surely, some kind heart will come

To bury me, bury me

Deeper, ever so little deeper.





My life has crept so long on a broken wing

Thro' cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear,

That I come to be grateful at last for a little


My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of


When the face of night is fair on the dewy downs, And the shining daffodil dies, and the Charioteer

And starry Gemini hang like glorious crowns

Over Orion's grave low down in the west,

That like a silent lightning under the stars

She seem'd to divide in a dream from a band of the


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