Six songs

Song Cycle by Eleanor C. Gregory

Word count: 142

?. Song [sung text not yet checked]

Nay but you, who do not love her,
  Is she not pure gold, my mistress?
Holds earth aught -- speak truth -- above her?
  Aught like this tress, see, and this tress,
And this last fairest tress of all,
So fair, see, ere I let it fall?
Because, you spend your lives in praising;
  To praise, you search the wide world over:
Then why not witness, calmly gazing,
  If earth holds aught -- speak truth -- above her?
Above this tress, and this, I touch
But cannot praise, I love so much!

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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

?. Apparitions [sung text not yet checked]

Such a starved bank of moss
Till, that May-morn,
Blue ran the flash across:
Violets were born!

Sky -- what a scowl of cloud
Till, near and far,
Ray on ray split the shroud:
Splendid, a star!

World -- how it walled about
Life with disgrace,
Till God's own smile came out:
That was thy face! 

Authorship

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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]