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There Is No Sadness Here. Oh, That My Heart
There is no sadness here. Oh, that my heartWere calm and peaceful as these dreamy groves!
That all my hopes and passions, and deep loves,
Could sit in such an atmosphere of peace,
Where no unholy impulses would start
Responsive to the throes that never cease
To keep my spirit in such wild unrest.
'Tis only in the struggling human breast
That the true sorrow lives. Our fruitful joys
Have stony kernels hidden in their core.
Life in a myriad phases passeth here,
And death as various--an equal poise;
Yet all is but a solemn change--no more;
And not a sound save joy pervades the atmosphere.
(The end)
Charles Sangster's poem: There Is No Sadness Here. Oh, That My Heart
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Out of the lamp-bestarred and clouded dusk-- Snaring, illuding, concealing, Magically conjuring-- Turning to fairy-coaches Beetle-backed limousines Scampering under the great Arch-- Making a decoy of blue overalls And mystery of a scarlet shawl-- Indolently-- Knowing no impediment of its sure advance-- Descends the fog.(The end)Lola Ridge's poem: Fog
The Fog
Out of the lamp-bestarred and clouded dusk-- Snaring, illuding, concealing, Magically conjuring-- Turning to fairy-coaches Beetle-backed limousines Scampering under the great Arch-- Making a decoy of blue overalls And mystery of a scarlet shawl-- Indolently-- Knowing no impediment of its sure advance-- Descends the fog.(The end)Lola Ridge's poem: Fog
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I've almost grown a portion of this place, I seem familiar with each mossy stone; Even the nimble chipmunk passes on, And looks, but never scolds me. Birds have flown And almost touched my hand; and I can trace The wild bees to their hives. I've never known So sweet a pause from labour. But the tone Of a past sorrow, like a mournful rill Threading the heart of some melodious hill,
I've Almost Grown A Portion Of This Place
I've almost grown a portion of this place, I seem familiar with each mossy stone; Even the nimble chipmunk passes on, And looks, but never scolds me. Birds have flown And almost touched my hand; and I can trace The wild bees to their hives. I've never known So sweet a pause from labour. But the tone Of a past sorrow, like a mournful rill Threading the heart of some melodious hill,
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