Fold the garment of thy love away
In my soul's dark closet, where the ruesome
Noise of grief mars not joy's perfect day!
This is admirable in its metaphorical directness, its passionate simplicity; it is a poem quite out of the common order. Many persons, had they written such glowing words, would feel that their life-work was accomplished. The beauty of the new school lies in its originality and its mystery; for the primary object of the poet should be any thing but clearness. Here now is another species of poem, very justly popular. This indicates the highest stage of progress in the art, and may well be introduced at the conclusion of this humble sketch: -
I sit in the lamplight, weary
Of bumming and grinding both, -
And my soul is very dreary,
And to live I am very loth.
This hair-pin - ah! can I forget her
With the beautiful eyes of blue?
Or the plank walk whereon I met her,
Just wide enough for two !
When the magical touch of her ulster
Thrilled my blood like a ghost?
Ah! now - when I think I have lost her -
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