IV. FALSE POETS AND TRUE. Look how the lark soars upward and is gone, His voice is heard, but body there is none Like raining music from the morning cloud. Yet, few there be who pipe so sweet and loud, The noisy day is deafen'd by a crowd Fill up the silences of night and morn. ΤΟ V. My heart is sick with longing, tho' I feed With aching hands and lingering of eyes. By the same light of love that makes them bright! VI. FOR THE 14TH OF FEBRUARY. No popular respect will I omit VII. TO A SLEEPING CHILD. I. OH, 'tis a touching thing, to make one weep,- So sweet a compromise of life and death, VIII. TO A SLEEPING CHILD. II. THINE eyelids slept so beauteously, I deem'd And roses bloom more rosily for joy, And odorous silence ripens into sound, And fingers move to sound.-All-beauteous boy! 2* |