Songs, Merry and Sad by John Charles McNeill
page 64 of 71 (90%)
page 64 of 71 (90%)
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And I, as though a captive held in bands,
Who, seeing a pageant, wonders much, but stands Apart, saw the sun blaze his course with brass And sink into his fabled sea of glass With glory of farewell to many lands. Thou knowest, thou who talliest life by days, That I have suffered more than pain of toil, Ah, more than they whose wounds are soothed with oil, And they who see new light on beaten ways! The prisoner I, who grasps his iron bars And stares out into depth on depth of stars! Folk Song When merry milkmaids to their cattle call At evenfall And voices range Loud through the gloam from grange to quiet grange, Wild waif-songs from long distant lands and loves, Like migrant doves, Wake and give wing To passion dust-dumb lips were wont to sing. |
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