Madrigal.
When morn is wandering on the seas,
And birds are singing in the trees,
And all the time is flushed with flowers,
And youth is in these hearts of ours —
How sweet then 'tis to love!
How sweet then 'tis to prove
How much a man can be to a maid
In the greenwood shade!
poem by Robert Crawford
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The Unborn.
Ah God! for those who are coming,
The millions who yet must be!
Thine Earth like a hive has been humming
So long with anxiety:
Such a deal of confusion and trouble,
Thousands so poor and unfed ....
They are coming to starve on the stubble
Where hosts of the ages are dead!
poem by Robert Crawford
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Self-Harmony.
Ourselves within ourselves, we then are free
To touch the world at every turn, and take
The moods of men and mingle them with ours;
But ourselves out of ourselves, we are slaved
To every passing rumour, loose our hold,
And slipping in the flood of circumstance
Are whirled away.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Life's Offices.
Most of life's offices may overlap,
And form a covert for the growth of thought;
But there are some no thought and no device
May ever join; or if perchance they do,
Or this or that will soon unsightly warp,
Like green material, and give recourse
To the disastrous airs of circumstance.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Love's Own.
Ah, that hair no age can dye
That is golden in Love's eye,
And that face time cannot touch
On which Love has gazed so much.
Other hair and faces may
Take on changes and decay:
Hers, if Love endures, must be
Sure of immortality,
Since no changes can occur
In the dream he's made of her.
poem by Robert Crawford
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The Rustic Life.
Happy are ye who can put by the stress
Of so much of the trouble worldlings know;
Ye who seem almost creatures of the woods,
Now animal and now bird-like amid
The quiet pleasance of your leafy lives;
Though sorrow may be yours, and Death will come
Even like a pilgrim o'er the hills to you.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Sleep Compared To The Sea.
The tide comes in, a surge from the great sea,
And every little muddy creek and inlet
Now sweltering in the heat, will soon be filled
With the salt sweetness; even as sleep comes
After a term of toil to the tired brain,
A-surge from out the infinite, and fills
All of life's inlets with a dewy ease.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Beauty, Its Effect.
I have been touched with her, and have ta'en (Unclear
The acquaintance of her beauty like a dream,
Or as it were a flower of Faerie breathed
By an immortal; for the light and air
Of life and love so, so endue her, she
Puts on and off the sweetest favours like
The momentary raiment that
A goddess dons and doffs.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Love #1.
E'en her own eyes tell Beauty she is fair;
And Love need know no language save his own
In any clime to read the heart's desire;
The Titicacan and Caucasian's his —
All tongues the theatres and temples where
He plays or prays while e'er the world endures,
And sun and moon, and night and day are true
To their beginning.
poem by Robert Crawford
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The Song-God.
The Song-god helps me mightily, and runs
Before life's purpose like a primal power,
Spirit in sense of all that I am still;
Whose flame burns in the heart, consuming there
The growth of that desire whose grossness would
Darken a dedicated soul, until
Within a sensuous lethargy it grew
Void of the God whose utterance is all.
poem by Robert Crawford
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