Broods Nature’s benediction, where lapwings float at rest.
PLIMOTH THROUGH AN OLD SPY GLASS.
(A SKETCH).
Deep nestled in my heart there glows,
Against an azure sky,
A picture I would paint for you,
But O, how dare I try?
My brush should be a sheldrake’s wing,
My palette were the moon,
My colors were the pulsing morn,