THE BROOK
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IT is the mountain to the sea That makes a messenger of me; And, lest I loiter on the way And lose what I am sent to say, He sets his reverie to song, And bids me sing it all day long. Farewell! for here the stream is slow, And I have many a mile to go. |
AN INTERVIEW
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I SAT with chill December Beside the evening fire. "And what do you remember," I ventured to inquire, "Of seasons long forsaken?" He answered in amaze, "My age you have mistaken; I've lived but thirty days." |