Y Latin and my hand [Full Poem] [Temp. 0.645]

Y Latin and my hand,
               He cannot carry it the sight
         The spirit of a black path
         Drops in the distant stone
         On the dusk she stands;
     And their one shuddering his heart
     Show in the strangers of the sun
     Which sweet the stones on the mountains flies
         The morning's mist with strangers to bique,
     And tourists the sound of the little ring.
     The infant's soft branches earth, the world
     Of Death be the charmed millionest drop the light
     And still with pride of all the pined thanks want,
     There was a form of spariat
     In my breast and red power'd chamber,
     My wings the soul demands, and trembled heroes,
     On the stones while fresh and garlanded sea-snort seems to haunt,
     And scourse the dark, and sheep with melody by the soul
     That fell the stately sky. Dead ships seem elsewhere
     Come close to the best from strains.
     Twilight of the many a guide rock'd with spring,
     With a breath being the lovery ways:
     Who pokes and deep in place,
     Or vile the day and the sade wealth!
     This night, and we are coming in the flowers;
     And all the spirits in the path
       The wild thing wide and fierce rule swell
     There to the streets of strains the flowers and of the grave.
     O following forth thy soul and all things known
     The folly reticeness from the spring,
     And the season were retiring for the world,
     And hopeless trial is lonely and by fresh
     On your spectre fling or stirring wide
         Of a single day with search
     Or where the rising grot to the sheart
         In space to the brant and demon;
     And the divine waves are throng
     Of southern like to bear,
     Revelate thro' the freight of heroes float,
     So still and soul as sunshine winds are light.
     And they smiled and hide their stern, in dreadful here,
     And when the world is blind and charity.
     Hath repeat in skilful stepmones stay,
     The wit and hills of flame complete,
     And all thy brown trees had their bones shall win.
     But Motorrie these are ready for the truth,
     And brood and little lies and students with her spow.
     So hard to speak to schoolsome native false,
     And on the first and day and thence and flowers touch
     With molten lips and life and triumphs of smile
     And stores the thrones of lights are bright.
     "The ruler that will stand and spy the Sign's shining soul,
     Shall with their fix in the low painter--
     All comes thy vow to seek that lave, and then
     On the moral patriarches of words,
     Everlasting lights of willows light
       And the other dispersed moon.
     Why shall we tell it for the dewy strung of queen?--
     And when the day hath lost a drop of steel,
     And bare, and evening could contend,
     From out the streams of sands I sang
     The golden strains in budget wall, and laid
       A song-bird that fly retreats.