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Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove;

O no; it is an ever-fixèd mark, That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error, and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

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When, for the crowning vernal sweet, Among the slopes and crags I meet The pilot's pretty daughter.

Round her gentle, happy face,
Dimpled soft, and freshly fair,
Danced with careless ocean grace
Locks of auburn hair:

As lightly blew the veering wind, They touched her cheeks, or waved behind,

Unbound, unbraided, and unlooped; Or when to tie her shoe she stooped, Below her chin the half-curls drooped,

And veiled the pilot's daughter.

Rising, she tossed them gayly back, With gesture infantine and brief, To fall around as soft a neck

As the wild-rose's leaf. Her Sunday frock of lilac shade (That choicest tint) was neatly made, And not too long to hide from view The stout but noway clumsy shoe, And stockings' smoothly-fitting blue,

That graced the pilot's daughter.

With look half timid and half droll, And then with slightly downcast

eyes,

And blush that outward softly stole, Unless it were the skies

Whose sun-ray shifted on her cheek, She turned when I began to speak; But 'twas a brightness all her own That in her firm light step was

shown,

And the clear cadence of her tone; The pilot's lovely daughter.

Were it my lot (the sudden wish)

To hand a pilot's oar and sail, Or haul the dripping moonlight mesh, Spangled with herring-scale; By dying stars, how sweet 'twould be, And dawn-blow freshening the sea, With weary, cheery pull to shore, To gain my cottage home once more, And clasp, before I reach the door,

My love, the pilot's daughter.

This element beside my feet

Allures, a tepid wine of gold; One touch, one taste, dispels the cheat

'Tis salt and nipping cold: A fisher's hut, the scene perforce

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MY PLAYMATE.

THE pines were dark on Ramoth hill,

Their song was soft and low; The blossoms in the sweet May wind

Were falling like the snow.

The blossoms drifted at our feet,

The orchard birds sang clear: The sweetest and the saddest day It seemed of all the year.

For, more to me than birds ΟΙ flowers,

My playmate left her home, And took with her the laughing spring,

The music and the bloom.

She kissed the lips of kith and kin,
She laid her hand in mine:
What more could ask the bashful
boy

Who fed her father's kine?.

She left us in the bloom of May:
The constant years told o'er
Their seasons with as sweet May
morns;

But she came back no more.

I walk with noiseless feet the round
Of uneventful years:

Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring
And reap the autumn ears.

She lives where all the golden year
Her summer roses blow:
The dusky children of the sun
Before her come and go.

There haply with her jewelled hands
She smooths her silken gown,
No more the homespun lap wherein
I shook the walnuts down.

The wild grapes wait us by the brook,
The brown nuts on the hill,
And still the May-day flowers make

sweet

The woods of Follymill.

The lilies blossom in the pond;

The bird builds in the tree;

The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill The slow song of the sea.

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