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Poem by Thomas Aird
Song the Twelfth
“Our rhythmic armies, lifted whole, Heaved, whelm and awe; True to harmonious law, Peace, thy consummate works spring from the plastic soul.” So mused the Sage. Seaward he stood: “How swell Yon waters measured to the moon's weird spell!” He saw the stars: “Yea, order, thrift divine, By thee yon congruous worlds unwasted wheel and shine.” Bold Ben he strikes his spurs into the sea. Beauty and they Bending our bay, Water and light one living crystal be. Curve me that darling lip: dimpling it swells To kiss yon lip of shells. The splendour is setting, the gray coming on; But the bird of the woodland dew-sweetens his tone. O Sun of my youth, in the flame of thy power The river ran glory, the meadow caught flower: That Sun in the west; be the harmony true, And steal on Regret in the sweetness of dew. They come, they go; they round the plan Of bread with beauty and with types to man,— The Seasons. Praise, through all our days, Our weary days of toil and strife, For bowing Heavens, and sweet relays Of blessing to the Gates of Life!
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