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AGAIN I see my bliss at hand,
The town, the lake are here;
My Marguerite smiles upon the strand,"
Unalter'd with the year.

I know that graceful figure fair,
That cheek of languid hue;
I know that soft, enkerchief'd hair,
And those sweet eyes of blue.

Again I spring to make my choice;
Again in tones of ire
I hear a God's tremendous voice :
“Be counsell’d, and retire.”

Ye guiding Powers who join and part,
What would ye have with me?
Ah, warn some more ambitious heart,
And let the peaceful be!


YE storm-winds of Autumn !

Who rush by, who shake
The window, and ruffle
The gleam-lighted lake;
Who cross to the hill-side
Thin-sprinkled with farms,
Where the high woods strip sadly
Their yellowing arms-
Ye are bound for the mountains !
Ah! with you let me go
Where your cold, distant barrier,
The vast range of snow,
Through the loose clouds lifts dimly
Its white peaks in air-
How deep is their stillness !
Ah, would I were there !

But on the stairs. what voice is this I hear, Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear?

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