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The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 4. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier), Appendix (search)
the loving, Though erring, are forgiven, Hast thou for him no refuge, No quiet place in heaven? Give palms to thy strong martyrs, And crown thy saints with gold, But let the mother welcome Her lost one to thy fold! Letter to Lucy Larcom. 25th 3d mo., 1866. Believe me, Lucy Larcom, it gives me real sorrow That I cannot take my carpet-bag and go to town to-morrow; But I'm snow-bound, and cold on cold, like layers of an onion, Have piled my back and weighed me down as with the pack of Bunyan. The north-east wind is damper and the north-west wind is colder, Or else the matter simply is that I am growing older. And then I dare not trust a moon seen over one's left shoulder, As I saw this with slender horns caught in a west hill pine, As on a Stamboul minaret curves the arch-impostor's sign,— So I must stay in Amesbury, and let you go your way, And guess what colors greet your eyes, what shapes your steps delay; What pictured forms of heathen lore, of god and goddess please you, Wh