Henry Abbey (Генри Эбби)

Odyle

We know that they are often near
Of whom we think, of whom we talk,
Though we have missed them many a year,
And lost them from our daily walk.

Some strange clairvoyance dwells in all,
And webs the souls of human kind.
I would that I could learn its thrall,
And know the power of mind on mind.

I then might quickly use the sense,
To find where one I worship dwells,
If in the city, or if thence
Among the breeze-rung lily bells.

1. An Enquiry of the Sexton
2. Faciebat
3. In Memory of General Grant
4. The Miser
5. The Vendor of Violets

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1775

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