It is no dim retaining
Of sounds that through the dim sea-caverns swell
But some lone ocean spirit's sad complaining,
Within that cell.
* * * * *
I languish for the ocean--
I pine to view the billow's heaving crest;
I miss the music of its dream-like motion,
That lulled to rest.
How like art thou, sad spirit,
To many a one, the lone ones of the earth!
Who in the beauty of their souls inherit
A purer birth;
* * * * *
Yet thou, lone child of ocean,
May'st never more behold thine ocean-foam,
While they shall rest from each wild, sad emotion,
And find their home!
[Footnote 93: A native of Virginia; her poetical pieces have been much
admired.]
* * * * *
=_Albert Sutliffe,[94] 1830-._=
=_418._= "MAY NOON."
The farmer tireth of his half-day toil,
He pauseth at the plough,
He gazeth o'er the furrow-lined soil,
Brown hand above his brow.
He hears, like winds lone muffled 'mong the hills,
The lazy river run;
From shade of covert woods, the eager rills
Bound forth into the sun.
The clustered clouds of snowy apple-blooms,
Scarce shivered by a breeze,
With odor faint, like flowers in feverish rooms,
Fall, flake by flake, in peace.
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