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BETWEEN two sister moorland rills
In clouds above, the Lark is heard,
A Spirit of noon-day is he,
grace, Fresh as the bloom upon his face.
A harp is from his shoulder slung;
They hear the Danish Boy,
There sits he : in his face you spy
TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER,
On being reminded, that she was a Month old, on that Day.
HAST thou then survived, Mild offspring of infirm humanity, Meek Infant ! among all forlornest things The most forlorn, one life of that bright Star, The second glory of the heavens ? Thou hast; Already hast survived that great decay ; That transformation through the wide earth felt, And by all nations. In that Being's sight From whom the Race of human kind proceed, A thousand years are but as yesterday; And one day's narrow circuit is to him Not less capacious than a thousand years. But what is time? What outward glory ? neither A measure is of Thee whose claims extend
Through “ heaven's eternal year.” – Yet hail to