438 lines
20 KiB
Plaintext
438 lines
20 KiB
Plaintext
1816
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SLEEP AND POETRY
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by John Keats
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As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete
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Was unto me, but why that I ne might
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Rest I ne wist, for there n'as erthly wight
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[As I suppose] had more of hertis ese
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Than I, for I n'ad sicknesse nor disese.
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CHAUCER
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What is more gentle than a wind in summer?
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What is more soothing than the pretty hummer
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That stays one moment in an open flower,
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And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?
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What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing
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In a green island, far from all men's knowing?
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More healthful than the leafiness of dales?
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More secret than a nest of nightingales?
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More serene than Cordelia's countenance?
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More full of visions than a high romance?
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What, but thee Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes!
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Low murmurer of tender lullabies!
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Light hoverer around our happy pillows!
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Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows!
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Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses!
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Most happy listener! when the morning blesses
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Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes
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That glance so brightly at the new sun-rise.
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But what is higher beyond thought than thee?
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Fresher than berries of a mountain tree?
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More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal,
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Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle?
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What is it? And to what shall I compare it?
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It has a glory, and naught else can share it:
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The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,
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Chasing away all worldliness and folly;
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Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,
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Or the low rumblings earth's regions under;
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And sometimes like a gentle whispering
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Of all the secrets of some wond'rous thing
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That breathes about us in the vacant air;
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So that we look around with prying stare,
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Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial limning,
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And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning;
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To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended,
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That is to crown our name when life is ended.
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Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice,
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And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! rejoice!
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Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things,
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And die away in ardent mutterings.
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No one who once the glorious sun has seen,
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And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean
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For his great Maker's presence, but must know
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What 'tis I mean, and feel his being glow:
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Therefore no insult will I give his spirit,
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By telling what he sees from native merit.
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O Poesy! for thee I hold my pen
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That am not yet a glorious denizen
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Of thy wide heaven- Should I rather kneel
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Upon some mountain-top until I feel
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A glowing splendour round about me hung,
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And echo back the voice of thine own tongue?
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O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen
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That am not yet a glorious denizen
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Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer,
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Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,
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Smooth'd for intoxication by the breath
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Of flowering bays, that I may die a death
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Of luxury, and my young spirit follow
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The morning sun-beams to the great Apollo
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Like a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bear
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The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring to me the fair
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Visions of all places: a bowery nook
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Will be elysium- an eternal book
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Whence I may copy many a lovely saying
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About the leaves, and flowers- about the playing
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Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shade
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Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid;
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And many a verse from so strange influence
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That we must ever wonder how, and whence
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It came. Also imaginings will hover
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Round my fire-side, and haply there discover
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Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander
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In happy silence, like the clear Meander
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Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot
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Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,
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Or a green hill o'erspread with chequer'd dress
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Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness,
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Write on my tablets all that was permitted,
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All that was for our human senses fitted.
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Then the events of this wide world I'd seize
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Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze
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Till at its shoulders it should proudly see
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Wings to find out an immortality.
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Stop and consider! life is but a day;
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A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way
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From a tree's summit; a poor Indian's sleep
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While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep
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Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?
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Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown;
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The reading of an ever-changing tale;
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The light uplifting of a maiden's veil;
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A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;
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A laughing school-boy, without grief or care,
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Riding the springy branches of an elm.
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O for ten years, that I may overwhelm
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Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed
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That my own soul has to itself decreed.
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Then will I pass the countries that I see
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In long perspective, and continually
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Taste their pure fountains. First the realm I'll pass
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Of Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass,
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Feed upon apples red, and strawberries,
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And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees;
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Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places,
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To woo sweet kisses from averted faces,-
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Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white
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Into a pretty shrinking with a bite
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As hard as lips can make it: till agreed,
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A lovely tale of human life we'll read.
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And one will teach a tame dove how it best
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May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest;
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Another, bending o'er her nimble tread,
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Will set a green robe floating round her head,
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And still will dance with ever varied ease,
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Smiling upon the flowers and the trees:
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Another will entice me on, and on
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Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon;
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Till in the bosom of a leafy world
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We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'd
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In the recesses of a pearly shell.
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And can I ever bid these joys farewell?
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Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,
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Where I may find the agonies, the strife
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Of human hearts: for lo! I see afar,
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O'ersailing the blue cragginess, a car
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And steeds with streamy manes- the charioteer
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Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear:
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And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly
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Along a huge cloud's ridge; and now with sprightly
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Wheel downward come they into fresher skies,
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Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes.
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Still downward with capacious whirl they glide;
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And now I see them on the green-hill's side
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In breezy rest among the nodding stalks.
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The charioteer with wond'rous gesture talks
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To the trees and mountains; and there soon appear
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Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear,
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Passing along before a dusky space
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Made by some mighty oaks: as they would chase
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Some ever- fleeting music on they sweep.
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Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep:
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Some with upholden hand and mouth severe;
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Some with their faces muffled to the ear
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Between their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom,
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Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom;
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Some looking back, and some with upward gaze;
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Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways
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Flit onward- now a lovely wreath of girls
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Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls;
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And now broad wings. Most awfully intent
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The driver of those steeds is forward bent,
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And seems to listen: O that I might know
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All that he writes with such a hurrying glow.
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The visions all are fled- the car is fled
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Into the light of heaven, and in their stead
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A sense of real things comes doubly strong,
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And, like a muddy stream, would bear along
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My soul to nothingness: but I will strive
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Against all doubtings, and will keep alive
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The thought of that same chariot, and the strange
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Journey it went.
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Is there so small a range
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In the present strength of manhood, that the high
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Imagination cannot freely fly
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As she was wont of old? prepare her steeds,
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Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds
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Upon the clouds? Has she not shown us all?
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From the clear space of ether, to the small
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Breath of new buds unfolding? From the meaning
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Of Jove's large eye-brow, to the tender greening
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Of April meadows? Here her altar shone,
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E'en in this isle; and who could paragon
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The fervid choir that lifted up a noise
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Of harmony, to where it aye will poise
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Its mighty self of convoluting sound,
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Huge as a planet, and like that roll round,
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Eternally around a dizzy void?
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Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'd
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With honors; nor had any other care
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Than to sing out and sooth their wavy hair.
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Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a schism
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Nurtured by foppery and barbarism,
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Made great Apollo blush for this his land.
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Men were thought wise who could not understand
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His glories: with a puling infant's force
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They sway'd about upon a rocking horse,
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And thought it Pegasus. Ah dismal soul'd!
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The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'd
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Its gathering waves- ye felt it not. The blue
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Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew
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Of summer nights collected still to make
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The morning precious: beauty was awake!
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Why were ye not awake? But ye were dead
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To things ye knew not of,- were closely wed
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To musty laws lined out with wretched rule
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And compass vile: so that ye taught a school
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Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit,
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Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit,
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Their verses tallied. Easy was the task:
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A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask
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Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race!
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That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face,
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And did not know it,- no, they went about,
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Holding a poor, decrepid standard out
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Mark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in large
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The name of one Boileau!
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O ye whose charge
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It is to hover round our pleasant hills!
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Whose congregated majesty so fills
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My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace
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Your hallowed names, in this unholy place,
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So near those common folk; did not their shames
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Affright you? Did our old lamenting Thames
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Delight you? Did ye never cluster round
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Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound,
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And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieu
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To regions where no more the laurel grew?
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Or did ye stay to give a welcoming
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To some lone spirits who could proudly sing
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Their youth away, and die? 'Twas even so:
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But let me think away those times of woe:
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Now 'tis a fairer season; ye have breathed
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Rich benedictions o'er us; ye have wreathed
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Fresh garlands: for sweet music has been heard
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In many places;- some has been upstirr'd
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From out its crystal dwelling in a lake,
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By a swan's ebon bill; from a thick brake,
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Nested and quiet in a valley mild,
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Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wild
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About the earth: happy are ye and glad.
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These things are doubtless: yet in truth we've had
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Strange thunders from the potency of song;
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Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong,
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From majesty: but in clear truth the themes
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Are ugly clubs, the Poets' Polyphemes
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Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower
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Of light is poesy; 'tis the supreme of power;
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'Tis might half slumb'ring on its own right arm.
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The very archings of her eye-lids charm
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A thousand willing agents to obey,
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And still she governs with the mildest sway:
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But strength alone though of the Muses born
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Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn,
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Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres
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Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs,
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And thorns of life; forgetting the great end
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Of poesy, that it should be a friend
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To sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.
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Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer than
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E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds
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Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds
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A silent space with ever sprouting green.
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All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen,
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Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering,
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Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing.
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Then let us clear away the choking thorns
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From round its gentle stem; let the young fawns,
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Yeaned in after times, when we are flown,
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Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown
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With simple flowers: let there nothing be
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More boisterous than a lover's bended knee;
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Nought more ungentle than the placid look
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Of one who leans upon a closed book;
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Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes
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Between two hills. All hail delightful hopes!
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As she was wont, th' imagination
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Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone,
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And they shall be accounted poet kings
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Who simply tell the most heart-easing things.
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O may these joys be ripe before I die.
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Will not some say that I presumptuously
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Have spoken? that from hastening disgrace
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'Twere better far to hide my foolish face?
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That whining boyhood should with reverence bow
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Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach? How!
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If I do hide myself, it sure shall be
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In the very fane, the light of Poesy:
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If I do fall, at least I will be laid
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Beneath the silence of a poplar shade;
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And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven;
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And there shall be a kind memorial graven.
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But off Despondence! miserable bane!
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They should not know thee, who athirst to gain
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A noble end, are thirsty every hour.
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What though I am not wealthy in the dower
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Of spanning wisdom; though I do not know
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The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow
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Hither and thither all the changing thoughts
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Of man: though no great minist'ring reason sorts
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Out the dark mysteries of human souls
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To clear conceiving: yet there ever rolls
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A vast idea before me, and I glean
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Therefrom my liberty; thence too I've seen
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The end and aim of Poesy. 'Tis clear
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As anything most true; as that the year
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Is made of the four seasons- manifest
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As a large cross, some old cathedral's crest,
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Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should I
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Be but the essence of deformity,
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A coward, did my very eye-lids wink
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At speaking out what I have dared to think.
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Ah! rather let me like a madman run
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Over some precipice; let the hot sun
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Melt my Dedalian wings, and drive me down
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Convuls'd and headlong! Stay! an inward frown
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Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile.
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An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle,
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Spreads awfully before me. How much toil!
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How many days! what desperate turmoil!
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Ere I can have explored its widenesses.
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Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees,
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I could unsay those- no, impossible!
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Impossible!
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For sweet relief I'll dwell
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On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay
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Begun in gentleness die so away.
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E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades:
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I turn full hearted to the friendly aids
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That smooth the path of honour; brotherhood,
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And friendliness the nurse of mutual good.
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The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet
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Into the brain ere one can think upon it;
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The silence when some rhymes are coming out;
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And when they're come, the very pleasant rout:
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The message certain to be done to-morrow.
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'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow
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Some precious book from out its snug retreat,
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To cluster round it when we next shall meet.
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Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airs
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Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs;
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Many delights of that glad day recalling,
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When first my senses caught their tender falling.
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And with these airs come forms of elegance
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Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance,
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Careless, and grand-fingers soft and round
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Parting luxuriant curls;- and the swift bound
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Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye
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Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly.
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Thus I remember all the pleasant flow
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Of words at opening a portfolio.
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Things such as these are ever harbingers
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To trains of peaceful images: the stirs
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Of a swan's neck unseen among the rushes:
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A linnet starting all about the bushes:
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A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted,
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Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it smarted
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With over pleasure- many, many more,
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Might I indulge at large in all my store
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Of luxuries: yet I must not forget
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Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet:
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For what there may be worthy in these rhymes
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I partly owe to him: and thus, the chimes
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Of friendly voices had just given place
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To as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retrace
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The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease.
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It was a poet's house who keeps the keys
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Of pleasure's temple. Round about were hung
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The glorious features of the bards who sung
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In other ages- cold and sacred busts
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Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts
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To clear Futurity his darling fame!
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Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim
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At swelling apples with a frisky leap
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And reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heap
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Of vine-leaves. Then there rose to view a fane
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Of liny marble, and thereto a train
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Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward:
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One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward
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The dazzling sun-rise: two sisters sweet
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Bending their graceful figures till they meet
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Over the trippings of a little child:
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And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild
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Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping.
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See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping
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Cherishingly Diana's timorous limbs;-
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A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims
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At the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle motion
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With the subsiding crystal: as when ocean
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Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothness o'er
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Its rocky marge, and balances once more
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The patient weeds; that now unshent by foam
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Feel all about their undulating home.
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Sappho's meek head was there half smiling down
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At nothing; just as though the earnest frown
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Of over thinking had that moment gone
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From off her brow, and left her all alone.
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Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying eyes,
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As if he always listened to the sighs
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Of the goaded world; and Kosciusko's worn
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By horrid suffrance- mightily forlorn.
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Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green,
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Starts at the sight of Laura; nor can wean
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His eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they!
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For over them was seen a free display
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Of out-spread wings, and from between them shone
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The face of Poesy: from off her throne
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She overlook'd things that I scarce could tell.
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The very sense of where I was might well
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Keep Sleep aloof: but more than that there came
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Thought after thought to nourish up the flame
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Within my breast; so that the morning light
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Surprised me even from a sleepless night;
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And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and gay,
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Resolving to begin that very day
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These lines; and howsoever they be done,
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I leave them as a father does his son.
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THE END
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