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a web of many textures

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Page 112


Thou art jolly in thy mood, O, playful giant,
Hurling us here and yon, despite our will,
To all entreaties deaf — to all defiant —
Holding no moment, at our bidding, still.
The poets praise thee — those upon some mountain,
From which their optics thy bright face can see,
Dipping their cups in the Castalian fountain,
Pouring libations soft in praise of thee.
O, treacherous sea! how sweet thou look'st but now,
And smooth, as is the cheek of maiden fair; —
There are ten thousand wrinkles on thy brow,
And anger's fury in thy hoary hair.
Let poets sing of thee — 't is my conviction
They 'd sing another tune, if 'neath thy jurisdiction!