Song The Second

Thomas Aird

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Blue breathing Night, down from her styptick noon,
Makes her young ice; the pools all plated gleam.
Bold speed defies her: down the dashing stream
Flashes the shattered moon.

Cunning pipe of liquid sweetness!
Who is blowing? Spring is blowing.
All the sullen gloom is going;
All the days are happy fleetness.

Mottled globe of seedy wool,
Blow it round, and blow it full,—
Blow the dandelion right!
Puck, merry elf, behind it notes
His fay of love come on apace;
He puffs the downy bubble in her face,
To vex her with the wingèd motes:
All by the charmèd moon, all in the fairy night.

Morn on the moors! she dips her foot divine
In purple blooms and webs of beaded dew.
How meek she combs, in ripples thin and fine,
Her hair of cloud high out upon the blue!

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