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CHORIC SONG.

I.

THERE is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass,

Or night-dews on still waters between

walls

Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from
the blissful skies.

Here are cool mosses deep,

And thro' the moss the ivies creep,

And in the stream the long-leaved flowers

weep,

And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

II.

Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness?

All things have rest: why should we toil alone,

We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan,

Still from one sorrow to another thrown :

Nor ever fold our wings,

And cease from wanderings,

Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy

balm;

Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, 'There is no joy but calm !'

Why should we only toil, the roof and

crown of things?

III.

Lo! in the middle of the wood,

The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud

With winds upon the branch, and there Grows green and broad, and takes no care,

Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon
Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow
Falls, and floats adown the air.

Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing overmellow,

Drops in a silent autumn night.
All its allotted length of days,
The flower ripens in its place,

Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,

Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.

IV.

Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labour be?

Let us alone.

Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last?

All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have

To war with evil? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave

In silence; ripen, fall and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.

V.

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,

With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half-dream!

To dream and dream, like yonder amber

light,

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