To The Chief Musician Upon Nabla: A Tyndallic Ode (James Clerk Maxwell Poems)
I. I come from fields of fractured ice, Whose wounds are cured by squeezing, Melting they cool, but in a trice, Get warm again ...
I. I come from fields of fractured ice, Whose wounds are cured by squeezing, Melting they cool, but in a trice, Get warm again ...
My son! . . . Them words, jist like a blessed song,Is singin' in me 'eart the 'ole day long; ...
Here we go round the ivy-bush, And that's a tune we all dance to. Little poet people snatching ivy, Trying ...
She's a Liverpool ship, an' becalmed on the Line;Ain't it hell when a Liverpool sailor must dine?Salt pork an' pea ...
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