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But thou wouldst now long be warden
Ere this night the pleasure bringeth.

For in this the time of Flora,

So by Grecian people named,
The grass-widow, the Aurora,"
Is in Hesperus inflamed.

See, she comes! and quicker, nearer,
Over meadows blossom-dressed,
Clear on this, on that side, clearer,
Yes, the night is sorely pressed.

Lightly sandall'd strays the blusher,
Him who flitted with Apollo
To surprise, and back to usher:

Where she comes the love-wafts follow.

Quick, O handsome boy, betake thee
Deep within, and shut the door;
She for Hesper will mistake thee,
Seize thee for a look he bore.

BOY, sleepily.

I gather patiently thy intent-
Thou meanest, God in every element.
Impartest that so charmingly!

It is because thou lovest me.


He slumbers well and has a right to slumber.
Dear child, thou hast indeed decanted wine
For me, thy teacher: without strain and cumber
The thought that ages him dost thou divine.
Now sleep is pouring out for thee, health-bringer
That keeps thy limbs in full and gracious plight:
Still quaffing, to my lip I place a finger,

Lest waking he should freshen my delight.


THE imagination's prey runs in forests and multiplies in all seas. The ocean is a saucer, and its bottom scarce skin-deep. And the distances which lie within the galaxy are sanded with the golddust of its imagery. The firmament is a solid floor on which this sense of unity can walk.

There is not an object which is not a passion; not a passion which does not overtake itself in objects. What is my thought like? Whatever it be like, that is my thought, or else it could not be like it. How irrational and fantastic seems this conclusion to which the imagination leaps with the faith of a child in its "make-believe!" How futile this hysteric passion which mounts to the eyelid and inundates the cheek at the happy rashness of some image that abolishes time and space, and turns the dirty earth to a lens! We put our eye to it: thou Deity, our eyes have met !



NTO the wild sea's shudder fell away


A drop from heaven; fiercely smote the flood.
Yet God requited modest hardihood,

And vigor gave the drop and stay:
A quiet shell its port became,
Until, for honor and renown,

A pearl beams on our Kaiser's crown
With gentle look and gracious flame.

Bulbul through the night sang mellow,
Pierced to Allah's throne of light,
Who the rapture to requite
Shut her in a golden fellow,

That is man, whose limbs constrain,
And the little soul's kept tightly;
Yet when she considers rightly,
Ever sings her song again.


A handsome cup one day I broke,
And fell to sheer despairing;

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