A priest to look for all that happy heart [Full Poem] [Temp. 0.395]

A priest to look for all that happy heart, 
She could not keep the straight hard walls, 
And let him take him where he slays the day. 
The good he was a friend, and see him lies, 
And when the world was like a good one? 
What if he was the day when I was born, 
When I should take him by a prize of fire? 
Why should I but and leave the day? Why, life and day? 
What an instance I repaid the world? 
She was a pretending in the strength, 
My life and all his hands on me,—ha, he 
From the earth and child! I say, good like a soul, 
And why is bright, the man should be a priest,— 
Killed it, when you sleep about the world. 
The triumph of the heart of the child 
And come to late a leaf-glow, each one more, 
And be the form of the earth, 
And proved to follow all the world 
Of an abate, and a stranger seems 
The first time you are the world's worthy words, 
I could not say a prize of privilege— 
I cannot stand a straight scallop with a stone, 
Where it went on my wife, a man beside, 
Since there is a prize of stranger mild and wink, 
And scrapes a break of storms the star and the stone 
Where the court of God and martyr bids might spend? 
Then claim she took the man and whole thing was I 
Of some pretension of a priest, 
A child that brought him to his martyr-name, 
When I think the same strange wife she left 
A friend of the stroke of the stroke of man, 
And in the morning at the end of the dead, 
When all the while in the common grave 
And cried "In the prodigal strain of the block!"