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Nor do we merely feel these essences For one short hour; no, even as the trees That whisper round a temple become soon Dear as the temple’s self, so does the moon, The passion poesy, glories infinite, Haunt us till they become a cheering light Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast, They alway must be with us, or we die.
Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I Will trace the story of Endymion. The very music of the name has gone Into my being, and each pleasant scene Is growing fresh before me as the green Of our own valleys : so I will begin Now while I cannot hear the city's din ; Now while the early budders are just new, And run in mazes of the youngest-hue About old forests; while the willow trails Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer My little boat, for many quiet hours, With streams that deepen freshly into bowers. Many and many a verse I hope to write, Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white, Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas, I must be near the middle of my story. O may no wintry season, bare and hoary, See it half-finishd: but let Autumn bold, With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end.
Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread A mighty forest ; for the moist earth fed So plenteously all weed-hidden roots Into o'erhanging boughs, and precious fruits. And it had gloomy shades, sequester's deep, Where no man went; and if from shepherd's keep A lamb stray'd far a-down those inmost glens, Never again saw he the happy pens Whither his brethren, bleating with content, Over the hills at every night-fall went. Among the shepherds 'twas believed ever, That not one fleecy lamb which thus did sever From the white flock, but pass'd unworried By any wolf, or pard with prying head, Until it came to some unfooted plains Where fed the herds of Pan: ay, great his gains Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many, Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny, And ivy banks; all leading pleasantly To a wide lawn, whence one could only see Stems thronging all around between the swell Of tuft and slanting branches : who could tell The freshness of the space of heaven above, Edged round with dark tree tops ? through which a dove Would often beat its wings, and often too A little cloud would move across the blue.
Full in the middle of this pleasantness There stood a marble altar, with a tress Of flowers budded newly; and the dew Had taken fairy phantasies to strew Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve, And so the dawned light in pomp receive. For 'twas the morn: Apollo's upward fire Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre Of brightness so unsullied, that therein A melancholy spirit well might win Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine Into the winds : rain-scented eglantine Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun; The lark was lost in him; cold springs had run To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass ; Man's voice was on the mountains; and the mass Of nature's lives and wonders pulsed tenfold, To feel this sun-rise and its glories old.
Now while the silent workings of the dawn Were busiest, into that self-same lawn All suddenly, with joyful cries, there sped A troop of little children garlanded ; Who gathering round the altar, seem'd to pry Earnestly round as wishing to espy Some folk of holiday : nor had they waited For many moments, ere their ears were sated With a faint breath of music, which even then Fillid out its voice, and died away again. Within a little space again it gave Its airy swellings, with a gentle wave, To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breaking Through copse-clad valleys,-ere their death, o'ertaking The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea.
as deep into the wood as we
Leading the way, young damsels danced along,
be read of in Arcadian books;
Steadfast upon the matted turf he kept,