TIME OFFTIRE [Full Poem] [Temp. 0.616]

TIME OFFTIRE.

The stars of the dead precisely dreadful,
And who did the day?

And now thy happy words have dead
And clearer dying while they follow
The great spars of the sea,
And to these mingling stars.
There was a strain in strength
That wanted to be promptly dared,
From barren wings of columns filled.
Give me a single one:
I said to me the singer
With my soul swelled on the forest rage.

Her face is sung to the continental breast
Of graves and double bursting wilderness;
And the stars have burst the winds and stars.
Can it be like in the lake of me?

I see the human body so fair and fair,
And while I how they built the sight
To be a hundred lake and sound,
And and a softly lady walks a thousand strength
With woe and pale stone than and in the street;
And like a street can live, --

But the for you the world is some foul return,
I dared and say it beautify
   And do not know the stars.

The spirit of death is not a star,
And swing away the silent fields
The roaring sky, thou terrible spright;
   And all thy tombs are heard for thee;
 
The many a staff of grass and blind,
And the same spirit that adjusteded thee
   Of the golden swain in heaven.
 
The shore of the rage of harm it were
   The day and his reflection.

O friend, a thousand stars adieu
   The worlds and stars and flowers wide
     To the bench and stretch around the star,
      While still saw the dark can never see.

     O spot! 'Tis with the busy sphere
      Where drink the showers around
         Of royal stockmen bear:
     A camelline seemed to bear the rose,
     Or trim with keep and light and giving thing.
     Why was thy wife, you strapped of Thirty maid?
     Why stop your own imperial head?

     To how to dare thy heart have perished,
     The latest thou hast forth to see;
     Or bring again the rage, with still.
     Her brown wakened earth is sneer,
     Upon the sky, the route in the court posts alive,
         And caress the first storm of death.
     And in the promulation of an interchange,
     Drinking the master that devolves so strangers all,
     And the little war, and the resistless grass
     In the season of the music,
         Who hears his father's brain.
     The sea were all that some appear,
     And she saw that her hand had trained this earth;
     And I the race of ranks in heavenly sight
     For some night thro' the depths of sighs
     Of pretty power and brief and dance,
     And there are wholes and hums the voice
     Of make a sense of grace be first.
          Some while they fly
         That made the accident of them.
         And all the world's the birds! are there?
         For the garden days they will
         Rapidly the waving of the bald--
         The spirit that flashes at the wall
         Quiet by the sky, and far in the darkness,
         A little bird that cannot break.
         O thou art like thy story
         Which all the graves of dreams,
               And the singer of the chalice,
                   Be the door moved out of the day,
         And now the sigh sees when beneath the highway,
         The ranks the shades were white and strong,
         And bears the fields are gay;
         And the decay bursts the autumn cloud,
         From me, and the glare of soul,
             Whose treachery light appear.

             When he beguns the darkness
               Shall contend, and singing them?