Madeline With other poems and parables: By Thomas Gordon Hake |
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ON NATURE. |
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Madeline | ||
XVII. ON NATURE.
Thou too, fair Nature, hast thy cloud,
Peace is not ever thine.
Thy plaintive cry is heard aloud
As from some holy shrine.
Thy murmurs, rocked upon the gale,
Tell of immortal life a doleful tale.
Peace is not ever thine.
Thy plaintive cry is heard aloud
As from some holy shrine.
Thy murmurs, rocked upon the gale,
Tell of immortal life a doleful tale.
Thy chant alarms the troubled sky,
Where late the sun has set,
And the repining heavens reply
In murmurs of regret.
The prowling sun, though it return,
Is tangled up in cloud;
Fierce flies the dust as from an urn
Burst open with its shroud.
The trees bend down to shed their leaves,
Whose drifting circle thee a chaplet weaves.
Where late the sun has set,
And the repining heavens reply
In murmurs of regret.
The prowling sun, though it return,
Is tangled up in cloud;
Fierce flies the dust as from an urn
Burst open with its shroud.
The trees bend down to shed their leaves,
Whose drifting circle thee a chaplet weaves.
Madeline | ||