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FRAGMENTS                       125
Or rather to behold her when She plies for me the unresting pen, And when the loud assault of squalls Resounds upon the roof and walls, And the low thunder growls and I Raise my dictating voice on high.
What glory for a boy of ten Who now must three gigantic men And two enormous, dapple grey New Zealand pack-horses array And lead, and wisely resolute Our day-long business execute In the far shore-side town.    His soul Glows in his bosom like a coal; His innocent eyes glitter again. And his hand trembles on the rein. Once he reviews his whole command, And chivalrously planting hand On hip—a borrowed attitude — Rides off downhill into the wood»
I meanwhile in the populous house apart Sit snugly chambered, and my silent art Uninterrupted, unremitting ply Before the dawn, by morning lamplight, by