XXXVII [Full Poem] [Temp. 0.892]

XXXVII.
A menace, and the happiest comed
That was, tales, light, bright note,
And in graved ocean o'er the crown
That dens are talked, and takes
The blue endless isle to talk,
And was a junkie dream,
Guesses to the plumes of strife,
And seeks the triumphs of the world
Bending these objects hunting popped:
Although we throw the higher contement
How power to slip the changeful judgment feels
The tears until I heard it into bold,
Thy valley of the veil of all the lousings, all;
A dust from traveled sea its scratchy dirt.
Then Death stand badly, for its problem haste!
Better off lilies of Strawberry?
Then whilst the walls, the lasting of the moon
Full of the world gives us the churchest beneath,
And oft the lilt of mask and mystic lads
On every formless week, those peaceful stroke.
A child of this wind, bending liberty.
O sand thy thoughts of loath's epistle
Thou benetizating are a life,
Who flung the wild town majesty
And touch so viteous in the evening.
Each wondrous star is clear,
Greenest beyond his rocket,
Bach's not except on thee.
And why I work, -- but super not,
In wonders to the treasure of the dead.
By our wing, who the divine sere
From translation
Without my embowering mind,
The tittering battle-dead dumb, and the name,
A clear wise breeze, scarce conscious placid priests,
And self-profound to see voice to take.
At first but, these in grave we speak to strang,
An upon the morning; while the leaves have spent,
How straightway feels the morning, emily the way
Of content. And, maybe their early morning shade
First are at ease and throne, thou constrons, even set
Master and to sing. Then in thy winds may be,
The lighted glen in the green light
And satisfie sylvia's starry wife
And quietly of lonesome globe!