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poet

James Russell Lowell

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poem
And what is so rare as a day in June?
     Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
     And over it softly her warm ear lays:
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
     An instinct within it that
poem
The snow had begun in the gloaming,
   And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
   With a silence deep and white.
   
Every pine and fir and hemlock
   Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
   Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
poem
When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast	 
Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to west,	 
And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climb	 
To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime	 
Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny