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294 Blue-bird and darting swallow, nor forget the high-hole flashing his golden wings,

The tranquil sunny haze, the clinging smoke, the vapor,

Shimmer of waters with fish in them, the cerulean above,

All that is jocund and sparkling, the brooks running,

The maple woods, the crisp February days and the sugar-making,

The robin where he hops, bright-eyed, brown-breasted,

With musical clear call at sunrise, and again at sunset,

Or flitting among the trees of the apple-orchard, building the nest of his mate,

The melted snow of March, the willow sending forth its yellow-green sprouts,

For spring-time is here! the summer is here! and what is this in it and from it?

Thou, soul, unloosen'd—the restlessness after I know not what;

Come, let us lag here no longer, let us be up and away!

O if one could but fly like a bird!

O to escape, to sail forth as in a ship!

To glide with thee O soul, o'er all, in all, as a ship o'er the waters;

Gathering these hints, the preludes, the blue sky, the grass, the morning drops of dew,

The lilac-scent, the bushes with dark green heart-shaped leaves,

Wood-violets, the little delicate pale blossoms called innocence,

Samples and sorts not for themselves alone, but for their atmosphere,

To grace the bush I love—to sing with the birds,

A warble for joy of lilac-time, returning in reminiscence. 



What may we chant, O thou within this tomb?

What tablets, outlines, hang for thee, O millionnaire?

The life thou lived'st we know not,

But that thou walk'dst thy years in barter, 'mid the haunts of brokers,

Nor heroism thine, nor war, nor glory.

Silent, my soul,

With drooping lids, as waiting, ponder'd,

Turning from all the samples, monuments of heroes.

