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But what is higher beyond thought than thee?
Fresher than berries of a mountain tree?

More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal,
Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle?
What is it? And to what shall I compare it?

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It has a glory, and naught else can share it :
The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,
Chasing away all worldliness and folly;
Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,
Or the low rumblings earth's regions under;
And sometimes like a gentle whispering

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Of all the secrets of some wondrous thing

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That breathes about us in the vacant air;

So that we look around with prying stare,

Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial limning,

And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning;
To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended,
That is to crown our name when life is ended.
Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice,

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And from the heart up-springs, Rejoice! Rejoice!

Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things,
And die away in ardent mutterings.

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No one who once the glorious sun has seen,
And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean
For his great Maker's presence, but must know
What 't is I mean, and feel his being glow:
Therefore no insult will I give his spirit,
By telling what he sees from native merit.

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O Poesy! for thee I hold my pen

That am not yet a glorious denizen

Of thy wide heaven. Should I rather kneel
Upon some mountain-top until I feel

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A glowing splendour round about me hung,
And echo back the voice of thine own tongue ? ·
O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen
That am not yet a glorious denizen

Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer,
Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air
Smoothed for intoxication by the breath
Of flowering bays, that I may die a death
Of luxury, and my young spirit follow
The morning sun-beams to the great Apollo
Like a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bear

The o'erwhelming sweets, 't will bring me to the fair
Visions of all places: a bowery nook

Will be elysium

an eternal book

Whence I may copy many a lovely saying

About the leaves, and flowers-about the playing

Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shade.
Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid;
And many a verse from so strange influence
That we must ever wonder how, and whence
It came.
Round my fire-side, and haply there discover
Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander

Also imaginings will hover

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In happy silence, like the clear Meander

Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot
Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,

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Or a green hill o'erspread with chequered dress

Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness,
Write on my tablets all that was permitted,
All that was for our human senses fitted.
Then the events of this wide world I'd seize,

Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze
Till at its shoulders it should proudly see
Wings to find out an immortality.

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Stop and consider! life is but a day;

A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way
From a tree's summit; a poor Indian's sleep
While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep
Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?
Life is the rose's hope, while yet unblown ;
The reading of an ever-changing tale;
The light uplifting of a maiden's veil;
A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;
A laughing school-boy, without grief or care,
Riding the springy branches of an elm.

O for ten years, that I may overwhelm
Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed
That my own soul has to itself decreed.
Then I will pass the countries that I see

In long perspective, and continually

Taste their pure fountains. First the realm I'll pass
Of Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass,

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Feed upon apples red, and strawberries,

And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees;

Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places,

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To woo sweet kisses from averted faces,

Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white
Into a pretty shrinking with a bite

As hard as lips can make it: till agreed

A lovely tale of human life we'll read.

And one will teach a tame dove how it best
May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest;
Another, bending o'er her nimble tread,
Will set a green robe floating round her head,
And still will dance with ever varied ease,
Smiling upon the flowers and the trees:
Another will entice me on,
and on

ΠΙΟ

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Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon;
Till in the bosom of a leafy world

We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'd

In the recesses of a pearly shell.

And can I ever bid these joys farewell?
Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,
Where I may find the agonies, the strife
Of human hearts: for lo! I see afar,
O'er sailing the blue cragginess, a car

And steeds with streamy manes the charioteer
Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear:
And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly
Along a huge cloud's ridge; and now with sprightly
Wheel downward come they into fresher skies,
Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes.
Still downward with capacious whirl they glide;
And now I see them on a green-hill's side

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In breezy rest among the nodding stalks.
The charioteer with wondrous gesture talks

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To the trees and mountains; and there soon appear
Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear,

Passing along before a dusky space

Made by some mighty oaks: as they would chase
Some ever-fleeting music on they sweep.

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Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep:

Some with upholden hand and mouth severe;
Some with their faces muffled to the ear

Between their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom

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Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom;
Some looking back, and some with upward gaze;
Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways

Flit onward now a lovely wreath of girls
Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls;

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And now broad wings. Most awfully intent
The driver of those steeds is forward bent,
And seems to listen: O that I might know

All that he writes with such a hurrying glow.

The visions all are fled the car is fled

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Into the light of heaven, and in their stead

A sense of real things comes doubly strong,

And, like a muddy stream, would bear along
My soul to nothingness: but I will strive
Against all doubtings, and will keep alive

The thought of that same chariot, and the strange
Journey it went.

Is there so small a range

In the present strength of manhood, that the high
Imagination cannot freely fly.

As she was wont of old? prepare her steeds,
Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds
Upon the clouds ? Has she not shewn us all?
From the clear space of ether, to the small
Breath of new buds unfolding? From the meaning
Of Jove's large eye-brow, to the tender greening
Of April meadows? Here her altar shone,
E'en in this isle; and who could paragon
The fervid choir that lifted up a noise

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Of harmony, to where it aye will poise

Its mighty self of convoluting sound,
Huge as a planet, and like that roll round,
Eternally around a dizzy void?

Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'd
With honors; nor had any other care

Than to sing out and sooth their

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wavy

hair.

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Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a schism
Nurtured by foppery and barbarism,

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