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Earth! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse and
Sister thou of the stars, and beloved by the sun, the rejoicer! Guardian and friend of the moon, O Earth, whom the comets
Yea, in the measureless distance wheel round and again they behold thee!
Fadeless and young (and what if the latest birth of creation?) Bride and consort of Heaven, that looks down upon thee enamoured!
Say, mysterious Earth! O say, great mother and goddess, Was it not well with thee then, when first thy lap was ungirdled,
Thy lap to the genial Heaven, the day that he wooed thee and won thee!
Fair was thy blush, the fairest and first of the blushes of
Deep was the shudder, O Earth! the throe of thy self-retention:
Inly thou strovest to flee, and didst seek thyself at thy centre! Mightier far was the joy of thy sudden resilience; and forth
Myriad myriads of lives teemed forth from the mighty embracement.
Thousand-fold tribes of dwellers, impelled by thousand-fold instincts,
Filled, as a dream, the wide waters; the rivers sang on their channels;
Laughed on their shores the hoarse seas; the yearning ocean swelled upward;
Young life lowed through the meadows, the woods, and the echoing mountains,
Wandered bleating in valleys, and warbled on blossoming
S. T. Coleridge.
TO THE DAISY.
TO THE DAISY.
WITH little here to do or see
Thou unassuming commonplace
Oft on the dappled turf at ease
Loose types of things through all degrees,
And many a fond and idle name
A nun demure, of lowly port;
Of all temptations;
A queen in crown of rubies drest;
A starveling in a scanty vest;
Are all, as seems to suit thee best,
A little Cyclops, with one eye
That thought comes next-and instantly
The shape will vanish, and behold!
I see thee glittering from afar—
Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
Sweet Flower! for by that name at last
I call thee, and to that cleave fast,
That breath'st with me in sun and air,
A DEAD ROSE.
A DEAD ROSE.
O ROSE! who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;
But barren, and hard, and dry as stubble-wheat,
The breeze that used to blow thee
If breathing now-unsweetened would forego thee.
The sun that used to smite thee,
And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,
Till beam appeared to bloom and flower to burn-
The dew that used to wet thee,
And, white first, grew incarnadined, because
If dropping now-would darken where it met thee.
The fly that lit upon thee,
To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet
Along the leaf's pure edges after heat,—
If lighting now-would coldly overrun thee.
The bee that once did suck thee,
And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
The heart doth recognise thee,
Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,
Yes, and the heart doth owe thee
More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold
Lie still upon this heart, which breaks below thee!
E. B. Browning.