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MARIA LOWELL. 413 Oh, Clouds, ye little tender sheep, Pastured in fields of blue, While moon and stars your fold can keep And gently shepherd you—— Let me, too, follow in the train That flocks across the night, Or lingers on the open plain With new-wash'd fleeces white. Oh, singing Winds, that wander far, Yet always seem at home, And freely play 'twixt star and star Along the bending dome—— I often listen to your song, Yet never hear you say One word of all the happy worlds That shine so far away. For they are free, ye all are free—— And Bird, and Dew, and Light, Can dart upon the azure sea, And leave me to my night. Oh, would like theirs had been my birth: Then I, without a sigh, Might sleep this night through on the earth, To waken in the sky. THE MORNING-GLORY. WE wreathed about are darling's head The morning-glory bright; Her little face look'd out beneath, So full of life and light, So lit as with a sunrise, That we could only say, 35*
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Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 07:31:31