For thy own private reading. Somewhat
Within these latter days I've read,
But surely there was much that would have thrilled the Soul,
Which human eye saw not.
I would give much to read that first bright page,
Wet from a virgin press, when Eurus, Boreas,
And the host of airy quill-drivers
First dipped their pens in mist.
June 14.
Truth, Goodness, Beauty,—those celestial thrins,[1]
Continually are born; e'en now the Universe,
With thousand throats, and eke with greener smiles,
Its joy confesses at their recent birth.
Strange that so many fickle gods, as fickle as the weather,
Throughout Dame Nature's provinces should always pull together.
June 16.
In the busy streets, domains of trade,
Man is a surly porter, or a vain and hectoring bully,
Who can claim no nearer kindredship with me
Than brotherhood by law.
July 8.
CLIFFS
The loudest sound that burdens here the breeze
Is the wood's whisper; 't is, when we choose to list,
Audible sound, and when we list not,
- ↑ [The word seems to be a new one, but its meaning is clear.]
