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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 Of the lilies at sunrise ? Wherefore that faint smile of thine, Shadowy, dreaming Adeline?
Some honey-converse feeds thy mind,
Some spirit of a crimson rose
His curtains, wasting odorous sighs All night long on darkness blind.
What aileth thee? whom waitest thou
With thy soften’d, shadow'd brow,
of thine, Thou faint smiler, Adeline ?
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
Of this most intricate Universe
Teach me the nothingness of things.”
He spake of beauty : that the dull
And said the earth was beautiful.
He spake of virtue : not the gods
Most delicately hour by hour
In impotence of fancied power.
With lips depress'd as he were meek,
And other than his form of creed,
With chisell’d features clear and sleek. THE POET.
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,