window comes [Full Poem] [Temp. 0.593]

©--
    "I don't like men and women out of the rain!"
     I heard my ancient souls say their blood,
     And with my lullaby
         In the rain's a tree
         The water-train the storms of harmony was like a knight,
         There was born, peace to strike its lips,
         And sound the dead on the season's breast;
         And yet am I a soldier,
         Whilst thou art projected will;
         What flowers and shows thy soul?
         Oh, for the door of Arabs!
         Their childhood perfumed for thee,
               One finger throbb'd the dead,
         In the lonesome trees,
         A moment's sister stood,
                 The youth that heard the sacred bower did like at all,
               O the faith of straining heart
               From the mountains of the many of the land.

                   The princess of the river,
               For the sorray melodious calm,
             And the yellow of the tempests seem,
             And savage of the fiery fields
         The ancient space of the rain,
         And superstition stands the hand who feels
         Where the garden smiled the weary fields
         Of that world should speak a fall to sea,
     The soul that you shall perish where he says
         Through the best of fair beloved state,
         And with the crucifixion of the snake;
     And the white depths of white hand make a sailing moon;
     And when the sun has never spent the ground
     So strange and slave that still will stay
     On the door to drink and perish,
     And she had failed and searched with them
     From the green walls and savage arms.

     Come home, when I might surely fear
     The compact of the hour of blood,
     And superstition with the hour of bliss
     Which as the strain is bright and barren day,
     From the old black summer's worthy cried:
     With the blood earth the sighs they are thy faith,
      And the rain shows children to the sky,
         And an eye glows to winges dead,
         Shall dark the other dead,
         And the thirty-name answers
         Of the grandmother died.

     The lighter that winter his dye,
         The ruddy seek shall break
         And the grave burses bent on the red street,
     And when it shows the hopeless stone
         When the clouds stand on the sky.
         When like a bay there shows the head
         And haughty palaces, and her horrible dark,
               Her hand that spreads his left to state
         To earn the thank and flower and orange blood.
               And this not the stringers
         That the constant call of fear.
         The clouds of higher than the morn
         And softened from the dusk,
         All the obvious dreary world!
         The flowers not to be surprised;
         Caressing wrong was the sea,
         The same child that spreads the brown rock were
         And in the wintry face.

     When the new-borne shines are glow in palace)
         And the swart so did I love a man
         When the triumph of passion ears here,
     And with no idea with the courtier flowers;
         On that which pours the stars to the flow;
         The hours of worth the strains
         And in the doorway walls,
         And every storm-wing eyes.
         When they make sure and countless while,
         While the thing I see the flock
         And made of life the parting trace,
         And the stars with the stream with masts
         With down the roaring horns,
         That hast thou sang to thee the tribes,
     And that mournful mingling shades are as my soul.
     When they thou hast God did love place
      To see the world and woe,
       Repenting and be merry.

     So the crimson star, the children fill,
         And a star rising in the middle.

     "Let the south has far away!
       The sun and sea.
         And impotent the world
         In the swallows heavenly star,
               With gladness many no more.

     These cause with strongest strange souls have descended;
         When the mountains draw the tall the hills
         The fields with words in stranger while she spreads
                 The interior majesty who cannot lie.
           How could I traverse!
         To me in the earth and half retire?
         O laughter of the confidence of sunshine!
     A meaning, thou who needed your beauty,
         And sing the trees that do so long
       Of the height of a hurry round,
         And the madness of the steps
       And the struggling hours of storm,
     And while the flowers lie with theeled wretched breast,
         A calm bending one it will not leave.
         Thou art my destiny in heroes!
     Alas! should I not tell be one mysteria,
         Then desert when the white hands
         Of the high-comes of the unseen wave
         From the same path, the snow-short storms,
     And smiles the sunlight lights aloft in bay;
     Yet with thy brook so test thy story the stars
         Are partly forward as we see
         Of all this pleasure, to destined me.
     The little sparse stars on my soul are lie,
         And on its tent o' the streets a-smoke
     The violets spread the deck of streaming star,
         To the long raven lands they lie:
         Only a cloud of strength and even
                                                                                                                                                                 window comes--