THOUGHTS FROM WRITINGS 



MY CHAFFINCH 



HIS hours he spends upon a 

 fragrant fir ; 

 His merry ' chink,' his happy 

 ' Kiss me, dear,' 

 Each moment sounded, keeps the copse 

 astir. 

 Loudly he challenges his rivals near, 

 Anon aslant down to the ground he 



springs, 

 Like to a sunbeam made of coloured 

 wings. 



The firm and solid azure of the ceil 

 That struck by hand would give a 

 hollow sound, 

 A dome turned perfect by the sun's 

 great wheel, 



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