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I DREAMED that, as I wandered by the way,

Bare winter suddenly was changed to spring, And gentle odours led my steps astray,

Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay

Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.


There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,

Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets ;

Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved ; and that tall flower that wets

Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth — Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears, When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.

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And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,

Green cow-bind and the moonlight-coloured May, And cherry blossoms, and white cups, whose wine

Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day; And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,

With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray; And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold, Fairer than

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And nearer to the river's trembling edge
There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with

And starry river buds among the sedge,

And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge

With moonlight beams of their own watery light ;
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

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Methought that of these visionary flowers

I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
That the same hues, which in their natural bowers
Were mingled or opposed, the like array

Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours

Within my hand, and then, elate and I hastened to the spot whence I had come, That I might there present it! - Ob! to whom?


Good night? ah! no; the hour is ill

Which severs those it should unite;
Let us remain together still,

Then it will be good night.

How can I call the lone night good,

Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight?
Be it not said, thought, understood,

Then it will be good night.


To hearts which near each other move

From evening close to morning light,
The night is good; because, my love,

They never say good night.


The sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie,

Curtained with star-inwoven tapestries,
From the broad moonlight of the sky,

Fanning the busy dreams from my dim eyes, Waken me when their Mother, the grey Dawn, Tells them that dreams and that the moon is gone.


Then I arise, and climbing Heaven's blue dome,

I walk over the mountains and the waves, Leaving my robe upon the ocean foam ;

My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the caves Are filled with my bright presence, and the air Leaves the green earth to my embraces bare.

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The sunbeams are my shafts, with which I kill

Deceit, that loves the night and fears the day;
All men who do or even imagine ill

Fly me, and from the glory of my ray
Good minds and open actions take new might,
Until diminished by the reign of night.

IV. I feed the clouds, the rainbows and the flowers

With their ætherial colours; the Moon's globe And the pure stars in their eternal bowers

Are cinctured with my power as with a robe; Whatever lamps on Earth or Heaven may shine, Are portions of one power, which is mine.

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I stand at noon upon the peak of Heaven,

Then with unwilling steps I wander down Into the clouds of the Atlantic even;

For grief that I depart they weep and frown: What look is more delightful than the smile With which I soothe them from the western isle ?



I am the eye with which the Universe
Beholds itself and knows itself divine

; All harmony of instrument or verse,

All prophecy, all medicine are mine,
All light of art or nature ; to my song,
Victory and praise in their own right belong.

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