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Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good,
Thou, O my soul, my flesh and my blood !
Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow,
We will stand by each other, however it blow.

Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain,
Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.

As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall,
The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall,
So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong,
Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong,
Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone
In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known,-
Through forests I'll follow, and where the sea flows,
Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes.
Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun,
The threads of our two lives are woven in one.
Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed,
Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid.
How in the turmoil of life can love stand,
Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand?

Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife ;
Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife.
Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love;
Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove.
Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen ;
I am king of the household, and thou art its queen.

It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest,
That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast.

This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell ;
While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell.

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Forms of saints and kings are standing

The cathedral door above ;


Yet I saw but one among them

Who hath soothed my soul with love.

In his mantle, — wound about him,

As their robes the sowers wind,Bore he swallows and their fledglings,

Flowers and weeds of every kind.

And so stands he calm and childlike,

High in wind and tempest wild ; 0, were I like him exalted,

I would be like him, a child !

And my songs, -green leaves and blossoms,

To the doors of heaven would bear, Calling, even in storm and tempest,

Round me still these birds of air.



On the cross the dying Saviour

Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling

In his pierced and bleeding palm.

And by all the world forsaken,

Sees he how with zealous care At the ruthless nail of iron

A little bird is striving there.

Stained with blood and never tiring,

With its beak it doth not cease, From the cross 'twould free the Saviour,

Its Creator's Son release.

And the Saviour speaks in mildness :

“ Blest be thou of all the good! Bear, as token of this moment,

Marks of blood and holy rood !”

And that bird is called the crossbill;

Covered all with blood so clear, In the groves of pine it singeth

Songs, like legends, strange to hear.

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Thou little, youthful maiden,

Come unto my great heart ; My heart, and the sea, and the heaven,

Are melting away with love !

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