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In that building, long and low,
Like the port-holes of a hulk,
Dropping, each a hempen bulk.
At the end, an open
Squares of sunshine on the floor
Light the long and dusky lane;
All its spokes are in my brain.
As the spinners to the end
and re-ascend, Gleam the long threads in the sun; While within this brain of mine
Cobwebs brighter and more fine
By the busy wheel are spun.
Then a booth of mountebanks,
And a girl poised high in air
And a weary look of care.
Then a homestead among farms,
Drawing water from a well ;
As at some magician's spell.
Then an old man in a tower,
While the rope coils round and round
Nearly lifts him from the ground.
Then within a prison-yard,
Laughter and indecent mirth;
Blow, and sweep it from the earth!
Then a schoolboy, with his kite
And an eager, upward look ;
And an angler by a brook.
Ships rejoicing in the breeze,
Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas,
Anchors dragged through faithless sand, Sea-fog drifting overhead, And, with lessening line and lead,
Sailors feeling for the land.
All these scenes do I behold,
In that building long and low;
And the spinners backward go.
THE GOLDEN MILESTONE.
LEAFLESS are the trees; their purple branches Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral,
In the Red Sea of the Winter sunset.
From the hundred chimneys of the village,
At the window winks the flickering fire-light; Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer,
Answering one another through the darkness.
On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing,
For its freedom
Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them.