276
Many a phrase has the English language—
I have heard but one—
Low as the laughter of the Cricket,
Loud, as the Thunder’s Tongue—
Murmuring, like old Caspian Choirs,
When the Tide’s a’ lull—
Saying itself in new infection—
Like a Whippoorwill—
Breaking in bright Orthography
On my simple sleep—
Thundering its Prospective—
Till I stir, and weep—
Not for the Sorrow, done me—
But the push of Joy—
Say it again, Saxton!
Hush—Only to me!
