Publisher's Synopsis
Excerpt from Drift From York-Harbor, Maine
And widening forms a harbor, small but safe; Behind which, half concealed by buttonwoods, The church-spire of old-york lifts to the winds Its weather-cock.
Below this spire, a town, Where, truant from the city dials, come The lazy hours to lose themselves in dreams And sweet forgetfulness of summer heat; An idle sort of place, where all day long It seems like evening with the day's work done, Where men haste not, because there is no haste, And toil but little, for they've little need; A restful corner, where the August breeze, From softly listening, finger on the lip, At length from listlessness falls fast asleep, And there is no sound heard save now and then A shrill cicada, hoisting of a sail, Low thunder of a wagon on the bridge, The dip of unseen oars, monotonous, And softly breathing waves that doze below, Too weak to more than turn themselves, complain, And doze again.
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