A FROST FANCY
Summer gone,
Winter here;
Ways are white,
Skies are clear.
And the sun
A ruddy boy
All day sliding,
While at night
The stars appear
Like skaters gliding
On a mere.
THE WORLD IS WIDE
The world is wide--around yon court,
Where dirty little children play,
Another world of street on street
Grows wide and wider every day.
And round the town for endless miles
A great strange land of green is spread--
O wide the world, O weary-wide,
But it is wider overhead.
For could you mount yon glittering stairs
And on their topmost turret stand,--
Still endless shining courts and squares,
And lanes of lamps on every hand.
And, might you tread those starry streets
To where those long perspectives bend,
O you would cast you down and die--
Street upon street, world without end.
SAINT CHARLES
'"Saint Charles," said Thackeray to me, thirty years ago, putting one of
Charles Lamb's letters to his forehead.'--LETTERS OF EDWARD FITZGERALD.
Saint Charles! ah yes, let other men
Love Elia for his antic pen,
And watch with dilettante eyes
His page for every quaint surprise,
Curious of _caviare_ phrase.
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