Faith and joy are the ascensive forces of song.
The poet is a creator, not an iconoclast, and never will tamely endeavor to say in prose what can only be expressed in song.
The weary August days are long; The locusts sing a plaintive song, The cattle miss their master's call When they see the sunset shadows fall.
Whither away, Bluebird, Whither away? The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky Thou still canst find the color of thy wing, The hue of May. Warbler, why speed, thy southern flight? ah, why, Thou, too, whose song first told us of the Spring? Whither away?
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