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THE MORNING MIST
'AS SHIPS BECALMED
COME o'er the green hills to the sunny sea!
And kiss thy gentle feet, like Eastern slaves.
And we will take some volume of our choice,
And thou shalt read me, with thy plaintive voice,
(Pale as some cameo on the Italian shell!)
Or looking out across the far blue space,
Where glancing sails to gentle breezes swell.
Come forth! The sun hath flung on Thetis' breast
All things are heavy with a noonday rest,