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WRITTEN IN MARCH,
While resting on the Bridge at the Foot of Brother's Water.
The cock is crowing,
The lake doth glitter,
The oldest and youngest
Their heads never raising;
Like an army defeated
On the top of the bare hill ;
There's joy in the mountains ;
Blue sky prevailing;
Yet are they here ? -- the same unbroken knot
Men, Women, Children, yea the frame
Of the whole Spectacle the same !
That on their Gipsy-faces falls,
Their bed of straw and blanket-walls. – Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours, are gone
while I Have been a Traveller under open sky,
Much witnessing of change and cheer,
Yet as I left I find them here!
Outshining like a visible God
And now, ascending, after one dark hour,
Behold the mighty Moon ! this way
She looks as if at them — but they Regard not her :- oh better wrong and strife, (By nature transient) than such torpid life!
The silent Heavens have goings-on ; ,
The stars have tasks — but these have none !
And breeding suffers them to be;
- She had a tall Man's height, or more ;
In all my walks, through field or town,
To head those ancient Amazonian files :