Maxioms by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
What probing deep
Has ever solved the mystery of sleep?
What probing deep
Has ever solved the mystery of sleep?
These Winter nights against my window-pane
Nature with busy pencil draws designs
Of ferns and blossoms and read more
These Winter nights against my window-pane
Nature with busy pencil draws designs
Of ferns and blossoms and fine spray of pines,
Oak-leaf and acorn and fantastic vines,
Which she will make when summer comes again--
Quaint arabesques in argent, flat and cold,
Like curious Chinese etchings.
No bird has ever uttered note That was not in some first bird's throat; Since Eden's freshness and man's read more
No bird has ever uttered note That was not in some first bird's throat; Since Eden's freshness and man's fall No rose has been original.
Upon the cunning loom of thought
We weave our fancies, so and so.
Upon the cunning loom of thought
We weave our fancies, so and so.
We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed
The white of their leaves, the amber grain
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We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed
The white of their leaves, the amber grain
Shrunk in the wind,--and the lightning now
Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain.
