the exterity of war! [Full Poem] [Temp. 0665]

keys, scarlet as if they were done.

It's so good at all.

It is said to me as I find I felt good as sunshine
I march for the lives of the summer and old and trusted billions,
I went to the table in a little the first field riding,
And the balance in the sky
The silver sun dresses from the air
And smiled me in the scenic, of the grave,
And start again and a hand, the storm, despite,
The first threshold, and oft the world's colossal storm
What soft shades of the sparrow won,
And clouds of current eyes and cheerful tune,
Always they have shapped me adorns,
That hopeless cherifies the chases please,
And we mean for shine and dare.

But the and only of your truth
Thou serves for heroes so since I am jet.

The meadows runnin' brain,
Whilst the mists persisted in the brain,
And roar of verdang bones and stones,
Retiring all the maids that fully roll
And feast a benting in my charms.
 
I speed the light of the array
   Till I went the time again --
  Alas! a tide that loves me
  I would see myself to me;
If thus will show the distant storms
And parents know not there to death.

I hear you reveal the sound, your lovers
A mist, when on your fated way
   From the torch that you are pressed,
Or bring their slaves and guardian streams.
   Alas! what children could be seen,
   And the ancient fields that live
   When all the showers smiled as they,
   The procession that stands in beneath.

There was no such a second time,
And when some there is this for thee,
So I must stand up with the common arm,
Moving is to my company of soul and dead.

The revolts come from where the Brooklyn sing,
Etchanging o'er the tears of summer towers,
Then threw them into starry fields, the plains
As revelent as sails, and trembling lights,
And yet the flag of violet and brother,
And sea a little year and gallant sand
His wing shall cry at dawn resistless bring,
Shows me in the poetry at ease;

And do we spare the stream and spice
That very little breaks the rampage
And dead and soul completed and bliss.
Why, by one little significent
All curious soles and dreams
Of song, and life was studied, --
How christ of mercy) do not stand
And spirit to a storm I the consecration of
A fine to the for the objects of the realms,
And little blood and whisper with the stranger.

Other stars the stateliest words they blow,
A waiting dark and wing beyond the power
Of Beauty and such as they were suspects
A window and the world whose bristles dare!
How cherry with the dowel and tally lie,
The flowery trees the tribets of most breath
Added in secret blind and strain.
In the gold strength where the dancing one
In that bloom is a rope of maiden,
  Lead in storm in attractive, and wise,
But I have taken the whole world that fails
A minute that hiding with with flame.
And so divine and dear love, and will say,
And ever at the window was the flies.
In one night but the tribes I gazed
And try to start a little time;
   And when my soul be sacred best
     The apple of the rest.

     When more are the morning's run
      Behold the trees and woe?
     And falls in strength and spices on me;
     Or time the thing that sailed such pride
     That strikes the shades a-moss the town
     Who shall be the song shall tell
     The grass and novel from the deadening wave.

     And not the cries of other means,
     And may a child is shown but bars;
     And the treasure of the flowers sing
     No more the stupers made the warm!

     Who, crimson fill the breakers blown
         To the old man, and slip them stand,
     And where will bring the tower-space
     The spades of the shades are dry,
         From barbarous woes,
     From showers of the violet suns,
         All the days of the true and stream,
         Or starting like a prayer in her chair,
      And all thy mortal and continental frost.
         Hence, light on your wanton
         Rise upon your sight.
         You shall be love to me,
         And crown and lamp,
         The soul is only from,
         Fair Carpanean bright.

     Oh, Sigismond! What of the mournful day?
             And this is from the walls,
         Or the spare and soul with verdant
         The winds that stirre thy scheme
         Whilst in the spirit of the earth
         Of the desert at their drawers,
         Their blossoms twitters the rock on mercy;
         His heavy horses' happiness.
         In the depths of material blood
         Of water-ripe the only none.

             Thy politeness
         That filled with tremulous glorious ease,
         The blackest in the depth of the soul,
         While the stranger to their beams the noble mine;
         The maidens carved a little and as great
         And fifty flowers they track the stone.
             And from the white rage
         Still in the sky-cloud'd slave
         Of flowers on hands how still forgets: storms the throne,
     And we have rorked them at the dewy bone,
         Or the clouds of the night,
         On the harbor of the ocean,
         This flower that brought between superfiges,
         A dispat of pale pride and hatter retine,
     Thou lovest but by the little courteous cry.
     And proffer thy construction sing
     The hero, thou shalt be absolutes note!
     If I could hear the soft speech, stronger than the soul
     New only and pride and ecstasy
     When silent from the shepherdess stray.
     Or 'twill your fair to roar that Lake you cease
      To the chimneys of the storm--
     Who drest and recondition spoke
      With enlightened days thy song of fleece.
     Yon you my heart is wistful and more billow,
     The strain of the dead soul appears,
     Where blithe the rapture will pronounce
       The by your basket warm the little bird
     Fare those scales in the wonder-hall.
     All, that the exterity of war!