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In the air that our dead things infest
A blast of the breath of the west,

Till east way as west way is clear.

Out of the sun beyond sunset,

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It sees not what season shall bring to it
Sweet fruit of its bitter desire;
Few voices it hears yet sing to it,
Few pulses of hearts reaspire;
Foresees not time, nor forehears

From the evening whence morning shall The noises of imminent years,

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With the cross, and the chain, and the Shone sole and stern before her and above, rod;

The most high, the most secret, most lonely,

The earth-soul Freedom, that only
Lives, and that only is God.

AFTER SUNSET

If light of life outlive the set of sun That men call death and end of all things, then

How should not that which life held best

for men

And proved most precious, though it seem undone

By force of death and woful victory won, 5
Be first and surest of revival, when
Death shall bow down to life arisen again?

Sure stars and sole to steer by; but more sweet

Shone lower the loveliest lamp for earthly

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Under yonder beech-tree single on the No, she is athirst and drinking up her greensward,

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wonder;

Earth to her is young as the slip of the

new moon.

Deals she an unkindness, 'tis but her rapid

measure,

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Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring,

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Turns grave eyes craving light, released from dreams,

Tell it to forget the source that keeps it Beautiful she looks, like a white water

filled.

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lily,

Bursting out of bud in havens of the

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Covert and the nightingale; she knows Yellow with birdfoot-trefoil are the grassnot why.

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glades;

Yellow with cinquefoil of the dew-gray

leaf;

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Saw I once a white dove, sole light of This I may know: her dressing and unearth.

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You, my wild one, you tell of honied fieldrose,

Violet, blushing eglantine in life; and even as they,

They by the wayside are earnest of your goodness,

dressing

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You are of life's on the banks that line Front door and back of the mossed old

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