Fragment 1: Sea-ward, white gleaming thro' the busy scud
Sea-ward, white gleaming thro' the busy scud
With arching Wings, the sea-mew o'er my head
Posts on, as bent on speed, now passaging
Edges the stiffer Breeze, now, yielding, drifts,
Now floats upon the air, and sends from far
A wildly-wailing Note.
Come, come thou bleak December wind,
And blow the dry leaves from the tree!
Flash, like a Love-thought, thro' me, Death
As some vast Tropic tree, itself a wood,
That crests its Head with clouds, beneath the flood …
Feeds its deep roots, and with the bulging flank
Whom should I choose for my Judge? the earnest, imp …
Who, in the work, forgets me and the world and hims …
Ye who have eyes to detect,...
The Moon, how definite its orb!
Yet gaze again, and with a steady gaze—
'Tis there indeed,—but where is it not?—
When Hope but made Tranquillity be felt—
A Flight of Hopes for ever on the wing
But made Tranquillity a conscious Thing—
Thicker than rain-drops on November thorn.
Water and windmills, greenness, Islets green;—
Willows whose Trunks beside the shadows stood
Of their own higher half, and willowy swamp:—
Though friendships differ endless in degree ,
The sorts , methinks, may be reduced to three.
Ac quaintance many, and Con quaintance few;