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Themes and Variations
OUT OF DOORS.
Eliot.—Here on the slope of this brown mountain side,
That turns, like some great beast, towards the west.
His coat, those long-haired grasses, dry and wan,
His mane a tuft of shaggy, stunted trees,—
I will see out the day. Come, Rollo, come!
There should be snipe in these high withered swamps,
And with a gun, no man is quite a fool.
That turns, like some great beast, towards the west.
His coat, those long-haired grasses, dry and wan,
His mane a tuft of shaggy, stunted trees,—
I will see out the day. Come, Rollo, come!
There should be snipe in these high withered swamps,
And with a gun, no man is quite a fool.
Not for the world would I have vexed my friend,
But something in our web has gone awry. . . .
I think I know the meaning of this change;
What brings fair Clytie to our quiet shores?
A widow now,—rich, lovely, free as air,—
Has she no men left in her London world
That she must steer her yacht to Heron Bay?
Poor sport here, truly. What, then, does she seek?
But something in our web has gone awry. . . .
I think I know the meaning of this change;
What brings fair Clytie to our quiet shores?
A widow now,—rich, lovely, free as air,—
Has she no men left in her London world
That she must steer her yacht to Heron Bay?
Poor sport here, truly. What, then, does she seek?
The same white outline, carved as if in stone;
Bright waves of hair that mock the statue’s mould;
Eyes, lifting with the sweep of brown bird’s wing;
A dimple—copied from an Angel’s head
That, set on high in some Cathedral gloom,
Bends on the changing centuries of men,
It’s changeless, sweet, expressionless repose;
Bright waves of hair that mock the statue’s mould;
Eyes, lifting with the sweep of brown bird’s wing;
A dimple—copied from an Angel’s head
That, set on high in some Cathedral gloom,
Bends on the changing centuries of men,
It’s changeless, sweet, expressionless repose;