THE LOST MATE. 



Shine ! Shine ! Shine ! 



Pour down your warmth, great Sun ! 



While we bask — we two together. 



Two together ! 



Winds blow south, or winds blow north. 



Day come white, or night come black. 



Home, or rivers and mountains from home, 



Singing all time, minding no time. 



If we two but keep together. 



Till of a sudden, 



May be killed, unknown to her mate, 



One forenoon the she-bird crouched not on the nest, 



Nor returned that afternoon, nor the next. 



Nor ever appeared again. 



And thence forward, all summer, in the sound of the sea. 



And at night, under the full of moon, in calmer weather, 



Over the hoarse surging of the sea. 



Or flitting from briar to briar by day, 



I saw, I heard at intervals, the remaining one. 



Blow ! blow ! blow ! 



Blow up, sea-winds, along Paumanok's shore ! 



I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me. 



— Walt Whitman. 



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