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Or when little airs arise, How the merry bluebell rings
To the mosses underneath ?
Hast thou look'd upon the breath
Some honey-converse feeds thy mind,
Some spirit of a crimson rose
His curtains, wasting odorous sighs
And those dew-lit eyes of thine,
Lovest thou the doleful wind
When thou gazest at the skies?
Doth the low-tongued Orient
Dripping with Sabæan spice
Breathing Light against thy face,
Round thy neck in subtle ring
And ye talk together still,
Letters cowslips on the hill ?
With a half-glance upon the sky
He spake of beauty : that the dull
He spake of virtue : not the gods
Most delicately hour by hour
With lips depress'd as he were meek,
The poet in a golden clime was born,
With golden stars above ; Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,
The love of love.
He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill,
He saw thro' his own soul. The marvel of the everlasting will,
An open scroll,
Before him lay: with echoing feet he threaded
The secret'st walks of fame : The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed
And wing'd with flame,