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In blisses and beauties!Free as the voiceOf the wind as it passes!Free as the birdIn the weft of the grasses!Free as the wordOf the sun to the sea—Free!
A WAIF.
Do you know what it is to be vagrant born?A waif is only a waif. And so,For another idle hour I sit,In large content while the fire burns low.
I gossip here to my crony heartOf the day just over, and count it oneOf the royal elemental days,Though its dreams were few and its deeds were none.
Outside, the winter; inside, the warmthAnd a sweet oblivion of turmoil. Why?All for a gentle girlish handWith its warm and lingering good-bye.
THE JOYS OF THE ROAD.
Now the joys of the road are chiefly these:A crimson touch on the hard-wood trees;
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