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Poem by Rose Terry Cooke
The curving beach and shining bay, Stretch from the cliff-foot far away, Where sailing dreams of ships go by And trace their spars against the sky. A belt of woodland, dense and dark, The distant beacon's flashing spark, The moth-white sails that wing-and-wing Up from the purple ocean sprean;-- One and all, in the perfect hour, Open to life its perfect flower; Though the ardent rose is dim and dead, Though the cool Spring-daisies all are fled, The lily unfolds its tintless calm And the goblin anthers are spiced with balm. Come, my soul, from thy silent cell! Know the healing of Nature's spell. The soft wild waves that rush and leap, Sing one song from the hoary deep; The south wind knows its own refrain As it speeds the cloud o'er heaven's blue main. "Lose thyself, thyself to win: Grow from without thee, not within." Leave thy thought and care alone, Let the dead for the dead make moan; Gather from earth and air and sea The pulseless peace they keep for thee. Ring on ring of sight and sound Shall hide thy heart in a calm profound,-- Where the works of men and the ways of earth Shall never enter with tears or mirth, And the love of kind shall kinder be From nature than humanity.
Rose Terry Cooke
Rose Terry Cooke's other poems:
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