Robert Falconer

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ON A MIDGE.

Whence do ye come, ye creature? Each of you Is perfect as an angel; wings and eyes Stupendous in their beauty--gorgeous dyes In feathery fields of purple and of blue! Would God I saw a moment as ye do! I would become a molecule in size, Rest with you, hum with you, or slanting rise Along your one dear sunbeam, could I view The pearly secret which each tiny fly, Each tiny fly that hums and bobs and stirs, Hides in its little breast eternally >From you, ye prickly grim philosophers, With all your theories that sound so high: Hark to the buzz a moment, my good sirs!


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