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DE SHEEPFOL'

De massa ob de sheepfol',
Dat guards de sheepfol' bin,
Look out in de gloomerin' meadows,
Wha'r de long night rain begin
So he call to de hirelin' shepa'd,
"Is my sheep, is dey all come in?"
Oh den, says de hirelin' shepa'd:
"Dey's some, dey's black and thin,
And some, dey's po' ol' wedda's;
But de res,' dey's all brung in.
But de res', dey's all brung in."

Den de massa ob de sheepfol',
Dat guards de sheepfol' bin,

Goes down in de gloomerin' meadows,
Wha'r de long night rain begin

So he le' down de ba's ob de sheepfol',

Callin' sof', "Come in.

Callin' sof', "Come in.

Come in."

Come in."

Den up t'ro de gloomerin' meadows,
T'ro de col' night rain and win',
And up t'ro de gloomerin' rain-paf',
Wha'r de sleet fa' pie'cin' thin,
De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol',
Dey all comes gadderin' in.
De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol',
Dey all comes gadderin' in.

Sarah Pratt McLean Greene

FROM "THE SONG OF MYSELF"

Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me,

Afar down I see the huge first Nothing; I know I was even there;

I waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic mist,

And took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon.

Long I was hugged close — long and long.

Immense have been the preparations for me,

Faithful and friendly the arms that have helped me.
Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful
boatmen,

For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings,
They sent influences to look after what was to hold me.

Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me, My embryo has never been torpid, nothing could overlay it.

For it the nebula cohered to an orb,

The long slow strata piled to rest it on,

Vast vegetables gave it sustenance.

Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and deposited it with care.

All forces have been steadily employed to complete and

delight me,

Now on this spot I stand with my robust soul.

Walt Whitman

QUA CURSUM VENTUS

As ships, becalm'd at eve, that lay
With canvas drooping, side by side,
Two towers of sail at dawn of day
Are scarce long leagues apart descried;

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,
And all the darkling hours they plied,
Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas
By each was cleaving, side by side:

E'en so

but why the tale reveal

Of those, whom year by year unchanged, Brief absence join'd anew to feel,

Astounded, soul from soul estranged?

At dead of night their sails were fill'd,
And onward each rejoicing steer'd
Ah, neither blame, for neither will'd,
Or wist, what first with dawn appear'd!

To veer, how vain!

On, onward strain,
Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,
Through winds and tides one compass guides -
To that, and your own selves, be true.

But O blithe breeze! and O great seas,
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past,
On your wide plain they join again,
Together lead them home at last!

One port, methought, alike they sought,
One purpose hold where'er they fare, -
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas!
At last, at last, unite them there!

Arthur Hugh Clough

TO HIS CONSCIENCE

Can I not sin, but thou wilt be
My private protonotary?
Can I not woo thee, to pass by
A short and sweet iniquity?
I'll cast a mist and cloud upon
My delicate transgression,
So utter dark, as that no eye
Shall see the hugg'd impiety.

Gifts blind the wise, and bribes do please
And wind all other witnesses;

And wilt not thou with gold be tied,
To lay thy pen and ink aside,
That in the mirk and tongueless night,
Wanton I may, and thou not write?
- It will not be: And therefore, now,
For times to come, I'll make this vow
From aberrations to live free:
So I'll not fear the judge, or thee.

Robert Herrick

WHERE ARE SIGHS?

Unless my senses are more dull
Sighs are become less plentiful.

Where are they all? these many years
Only mine own have reacht my ears.

Walter Savage Landor

MELANCHOLY

Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly:
There's nought in this life sweet
If man were wise to see't,
But only melancholy,

O sweetest Melancholy!

Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,

A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound!
Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan!
These are the sounds we feed upon;

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

John Fletcher

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