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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,
green field sleeps in the sun ;
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 ! Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light, Now deep and red, the colouring of night ;
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
- 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 ;
What other dress she has I could not know; Only she wore a Cap that was as white as snow.
In all my walks, through field or town,
To head those ancient Amazonian files :