Each strand of her hair Is really insect eyes And each hole in her tongue Is always occupied By the milk of the sun
The rainy night when I am standing wearing armor with sword and shield in my hand and looking again and again towards the eastern horizon, waiting for sun to rise so that I could start the battle.
See the clear sun, the world's bright eye, In at our window peeping; Lo, how he blusheth to espy Us idle wenches sleeping!
The one great poem of New England is her Sunday.
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