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Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun, Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily

won

God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain
And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain.

As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod,
Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God:
I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies
In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and
the skies:

By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod
I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God:
Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within
The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn.

And the sea lends large, as the marsh: lo, out of his plenty

the sea

Pours fast: full soon the time of the flood-tide must be:
Look how the grace of the sea doth go

About and about through the intricate channels that flow
Here and there,

Everywhere,

Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low

lying lanes,

And the marsh is meshed with a million veins,
That like as with rosy and silvery essences flow
In the rose-and-silver evening glow.

Farewell, my lord Sun!

The creeks overflow: a thousand rivulets run

"Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades of the marsh-grass

stir;

Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whirr; Passeth, and all is still; and the currents cease to run;

And the sea and the marsh are one.

How still the plains of the waters be!
The tide is in his ecstasy.

The tide is at his highest height:

And it is night.

15.

And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters of sleep

Roll in on the souls of men,

But who will reveal to our waking ken

The forms that swim and the shapes that creep

Under the waters of sleep?

And I would I could know what swimmeth below when the tide comes in

On the length and the breadth of the marvellous marshes of

Glynn.

Lanier: The Marshes of Glynn.1

My soul to-day

Is far away,

Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;

My winged boat,

A bird afloat,

Swims round the purple peaks remote:

Round purple peaks

It sails, and seeks

Blue inlets and their crystal creeks,
Where high rocks throw,

Through deeps below,

A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague, and dim,
The mountains swim:
While on Vesuvius' misty brim,
With outstretched hands,
The gray smoke stands,
O'erlooking the volcanic lands.

Here Ischia smiles
O'er liquid miles;

And yonder, bluest of the isles,

Calm Capri waits,

Her sapphire gates

Beguiling to her bright estates.

1 From The Poems of Sidney Lanier. Used with the kind permission of the publishers, Charles Scribner's Sous.

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6. Influence of emotion on inflection

16. Men told me, Lord, it was a vale of tears
Where Thou hadst placed me, wickedness and woe
My twain companions whereso I might go;
That I through ten and three-score weary years
Should stumble on, beset by pains and fears,
Fierce conflict round me, passions hot within,
Enjoyment brief and fatal but in sin.

1 Used with the kind permission of the publishers, J. B. Lippincott Com pany.

When all was ended then should I demand
Full compensation from Thine austere hand;
For, 't is Thy pleasure, all temptation past,
To be not just but generous at last.

Lord, here am I, my three-score years and ten
All counted to the full; I've fought Thy fight,
Crossed Thy dark valleys, scaled Thy rocks' harsh height,
Borne all Thy burdens Thou dost lay on men
With hand unsparing, three-score years and ten.
Before Thee now I make my claim, O Lord!
What shall I pray Thee as a meet reward?

I ask for nothing. Let the balance fall!
All that I am or know or may confess
But swells the weight of mine indebtedness;
Burdens and sorrows stand transfigured all;
Thy hand's rude buffet turns to a caress,
For Love, with all the rest, Thou gavest me here,
And Love is Heaven's very atmosphere.

Lo! I have dwelt with Thee, Lord. Let me die.

I could no more through all Eternity.

David Starr Jordan: Men Told Me, Lord.1

17. Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest, Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam

of the moonlight,

Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious

spirit.

Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the

garden

Poured out their souls in odors, that were their

confessions

prayers and

Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian. Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews,

Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight

1 Used with the kind permission of the author.

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