Ah! the pretty flow of wit,
And the good hearts under it;
While the wheels of life go round
With a most melodious sound.
Not a vestige anywhere
Of our grim familiar, Care --
Roses! from the trees of yore
Blooming by the rivers four.
Not a jar, and not a fret;
Ecstasy and longing met.
But why should I thus define --
Is not your chateau like mine?
Scarcely were it strange to meet
In that magic realm so sweet,
So! I'll take this dreamland train
Bound for my chateau in Spain.
Sydney Jephcott.
Chaucer
O gracious morning eglantine,
Making the far old English ways divine!
Though from thy stock our mateless rose was bred,
Staining the world's skies with its red,
Our garden gives no scent so fresh as thine,
Sweet, thorny-seeming eglantine.
White Paper
Smooth white paper 'neath the pen;
Richest field that iron ploughs,
Germinating thoughts of men,
Though no heaven its rain allows;
Till they ripen, thousand fold,
And our spirits reap the corn,
In a day-long dream of gold;
Food for all the souls unborn.
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