262 lines
12 KiB
Plaintext
262 lines
12 KiB
Plaintext
1816
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I STOOD TIP-TOE UPON A LITTLE HILL
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by John Keats
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Places of nestling green for Poets made.
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STORY OF RIMINI.
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I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,
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The air was cooling, and so very still,
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That the sweet buds which with a modest pride
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Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,
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Their scantly leav'd, and finely tapering stems,
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Had not yet lost those starry diadems
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Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.
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The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn,
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And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept
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On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept
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A little noiseless noise among the leaves,
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Born of the very sigh that silence heaves:
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For not the faintest motion could be seen
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Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green.
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There was wide wand'ring for the greediest eye,
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To peer about upon variety;
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Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim,
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And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim;
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To picture out the quaint, and curious bending
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Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending;
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Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves,
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Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves.
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I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free
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As though the fanning wings of Mercury
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Had play'd upon my heels: I was light-hearted,
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And many pleasures to my vision started;
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So I straightway began to pluck a posey
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Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy.
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A bush of May flowers with the bees about them;
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Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them;
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And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,
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And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them
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Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets,
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That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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A filbert hedge with wild briar overtwined,
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And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind
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Upon their summer thrones; there too should be
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The frequent chequer of a youngling tree,
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That with a score of light green brethren shoots
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From the quaint mossiness of aged roots:
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Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters
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Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters
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The spreading blue-bells: it may haply mourn
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That such fair clusters should be rudely torn
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From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly
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By infant hands, left on the path to die.
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Open afresh your round of starry folds,
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Ye ardent marigolds!
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Dry up the moisture from your golden lids,
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For great Apollo bids
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That in these days your praises should be sung
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On many harps, which he has lately strung;
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And when again your dewiness he kisses,
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Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses:
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So haply when I rove in some far vale,
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His mighty voice may come upon the gale.
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Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight:
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With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white,
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And taper fingers catching at all things,
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To bind them all about with tiny rings.
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Linger awhile upon some bending planks
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That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks,
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And watch intently Nature's gentle doings:
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They will be found softer than ring-dove's cooings.
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How silent comes the water round that bend;
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Not the minutest whisper does it send
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To the o'erhanging sallows: blades of grass
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Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass.
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Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach
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To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach
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A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds;
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Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,
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Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams,
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To taste the luxury of sunny beams
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Temper'd with coolness. How they ever wrestle
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With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle
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Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand.
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If you but scantily hold out the hand,
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That very instant not one will remain;
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But turn your eye, and they are there again.
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The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,
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And cool themselves among the em'rald tresses;
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The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,
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And moisture, that the bowery green may live:
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So keeping up an interchange of favours,
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Like good men in the truth of their behaviours.
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Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop
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From low hung branches; little space they stop;
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But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek;
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Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:
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Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings,
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Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
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Were I in such a place, I sure should pray
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That naught less sweet, might call my thoughts away,
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Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown
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Fanning away the dandelion's down;
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Than the light music of her nimble toes
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Patting against the sorrel as she goes.
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How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught
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Playing in all her innocence of thought.
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O let me lead her gently o'er the brook,
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Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look;
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O let me for one moment touch her wrist;
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Let me one moment to her breathing list;
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And as she leaves me may she often turn
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Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.
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What next? A tuft of evening primroses,
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O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes;
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O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,
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But that 'tis ever startled by the leap
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Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting
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Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting;
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Or by the moon lifting her silver rim
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Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim
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Coming into the blue with all her light.
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O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight
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Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers;
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Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,
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Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams,
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Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,
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Lover of loneliness, and wandering,
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Of upcast eye, and tender pondering!
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Thee must I praise above all other glories
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That smile us on to tell delightful stories.
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For what has made the sage or poet write
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But the fair paradise of Nature's light?
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In the calm grandeur of a sober line,
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We see the waving of the mountain pine;
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And when a tale is beautifully staid,
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We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade:
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When it is moving on luxurious wings,
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The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings:
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Fair dewy roses brush against our faces,
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And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases;
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O'er head we see the jasmine and sweet briar,
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And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire;
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While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles
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Charms us at once away from all our troubles:
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So that we feel uplifted from the world,
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Walking upon the white clouds wreath'd and curl'd.
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So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went
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On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment;
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What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips
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First touch'd; what amorous, and fondling nips
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They gave each other's cheeks; with all their sighs,
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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes:
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The silver lamp,- the ravishment,- the wonder-
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The darkness,- loneliness,- the fearful thunder;
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Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown,
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To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
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So did he feel, who pull'd the boughs aside,
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That we might look into a forest wide,
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To catch a glimpse of Fauns, and Dryades
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Coming with softest rustle through the trees;
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And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet,
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Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet:
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Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled
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Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.
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Poor nymph,- poor Pan,- how he did weep to find,
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Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind
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Along the reedy stream; a half-heard strain,
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Full of sweet desolation- balmy pain.
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What first inspired a bard of old to sing
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Narcissus pining o'er the untainted spring?
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In some delicious ramble, he had found
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A little space, with boughs all woven round;
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And in the midst of all, a clearer pool
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Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool,
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The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping
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Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.
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And on the bank a lonely flower he spied,
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A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride,
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Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness,
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To woo its own sad image into nearness:
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Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move;
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But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love.
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So while the poet stood in this sweet spot,
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Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy shot;
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Nor was it long ere he had told the tale
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Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale.
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Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew
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That sweetest of all songs, that ever new,
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That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness,
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Coming ever to bless
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The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing
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Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing
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From out the middle air, from flowery nests,
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And from the pillowy silkiness that rests
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Full in the speculation of the stars.
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Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars;
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Into some wond'rous region he had gone,
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To search for thee, divine Endymion!
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He was a Poet, sure a lover too,
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Who stood on Latmus' top, what time there blew
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Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below;
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And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow
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A hymn from Dian's temple; while upswelling,
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The incense went to her own starry dwelling.
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But though her face was clear as infant's eyes,
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Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice,
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The Poet wept at her so piteous fate,
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Wept that such beauty should be desolate:
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So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won,
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And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion.
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Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen
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Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen!
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As thou exceedest all things in thy shine,
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So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine.
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O for three words of honey, that I might
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Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night!
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Where distant ships do seem to show their keels,
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Phoebus awhile delay'd his mighty wheels,
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And turn'd to smile upon thy bashful eyes,
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Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize.
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The evening weather was so bright, and clear,
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That men of health were of unusual cheer;
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Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call,
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Or young Apollo on the pedestal:
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And lovely women were as fair and warm,
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As Venus looking sideways in alarm.
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The breezes were ethereal, and pure,
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And crept through half-closed lattices to cure
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The languid sick; it cool'd their fever'd sleep,
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And soothed them into slumbers full and deep.
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Soon they awoke clear eyed: nor burnt with thirsting,
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Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting:
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And springing up, they met the wond'ring sight
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Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight;
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Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare,
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And on their placid foreheads part the hair.
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Young men, and maidens at each other gaz'd
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With hands held back, and motionless, amaz'd
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To see the brightness in each other's eyes;
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And so they stood, fill'd with a sweet surprise,
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Until their tongues were loos'd in poesy.
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Therefore no lover did of anguish die:
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But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken,
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Made silken ties, that never may be broken.
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Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses,
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That follow'd thine, and thy dear shepherd's kisses:
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Was there a poet born?- but now no more,
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My wand'ring spirit must no further soar.-
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THE END
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