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Afternoon

Small, shapeless drifts of

Sail slowly northward in the soft-hued sky,

With blur half-tints and rolling summits bright,

By the late sun caressed; slight hazes

All things afar; shineth each leaf

With its own warmth and light.

O'erblown by Southland airs,

The summer landscape basks in utter peace:

In lazy streams the lazy clouds are seen;

Low hills, broad meadows, and large, clear-cut

Of ripening corn-fields, rippled by the breeze,

With shifting shade and sheen.

Hark! and you may not hearA sound less soothing than the rustle

Of swaying leaves, the steady wiry

Of unseen crickets, sudden chirpings

Of happy birds, the tinkle of the pool,

Chafed by a single stone.

What vague, delicious dreams,

Born of this golden hour of afternoon,

And air balm-freighted, fill the soul with bliss,

Transpierced like yonder clouds with lustrous gleams,

Fantastic, brief as they, and, like them,

Of gilded nothingness!

All things are well with her.'T is good to be alive, to see the

That plays upon the grass, to feel (and

With perfect pleasure) the mild breezes

Among the garden roses, red and white,

With whiffs of fragrancy.

There is no troublous thought,

No painful memory, no grave regret,

To mar the sweet suggestions of the hour:

The soul, at peace, reflects the peace without,

Forgetting grief as sunset skies

The morning's transient shower.

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Emma Lazarus

Emma Lazarus (July 22, 1849 – November 19, 1887) was an American author of poetry, prose, and translations, as well as an activist for Jewish ca…

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