Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/34
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SAND HILLS
The world is spread with rough grained silk,crumpled a little where the sky indents itand cuts off the view.
The very old gods,long since tired of northern lightsand seas too jeweledand snows too glittering,—tired, too, of men,—the very old gods come herein the late eveningto sit quietly on the warm gray silkand rest their eyeswith milky opal tintsand the smoky blueflecked by the dim fire of giant stars.
The MeasureHenry Bellamann
"JUNKETS," IMMORTAL[1]
"What has become of Junkets I know not. I suppose Queen Mab has eaten him."
—Leigh Hunt to Charles Cowden Clarke, July 1, 1817.
["Junkets" was his intimates' affectionate nickname for John Keats, applied to his exuberance of spirit.]
—Leigh Hunt to Charles Cowden Clarke, July 1, 1817.
["Junkets" was his intimates' affectionate nickname for John Keats, applied to his exuberance of spirit.]
What has become of "Junkets"? I know well.The goldfinch, the wildbriar, the elm-trees know.The secret's one the sunset burns to tell.The gossiping brooks divulge it as they flow.The tranced white clouds convey it; tattle-taleIs every leaf in every woodland ride.Sunlight on dappled lane and grassy swaleSmiles it to all the English countryside.
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