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WEET Spirit! Sister of that orphan one,
Whose empire is the name thou weepest on,
In my heart's temple I suspend to thee
Poor captive bird! who, from thy narrow
Pourest such music, that it might assuage
But soft and fragrant is the faded blossom, And it has no thorn left to wound thy bosom.
High, spirit-winged Heart! who dost for ever Beat thine unfeeling bars with vain endeavour, Till those bright plumes of thought, in which arrayed
It over-soared this low and worldly shade,
Seraph of Heaven! too gentle to be human, Veiling beneath that radiant form of Woman All that is insupportable in thee
Of light, and love, and immortality !
Among the Dead! Thou Star above the Storm!
Thou Wonder, and thou Beauty, and thou Terror!
Thou Harmony of Nature's art! Thou
In whom, as in the splendour of the Sun,
Flash, lightning-like, with unaccustomed glow!
With those clear drops, which start like sacred dew
From the twin lights thy sweet soul darkens through,
Weeping, till sorrow becomes ecstasy :
I never thought before my death to see Youth's vision thus made perfect. Emily, I love thee; though the world by no thin
Will hide that love, from its unvalued shame.
Would we two had been twins of the same
Or, that the name my heart lent to another
Yet were one lawful and the other true,
How beyond refuge I am thine. Ah me!
Sweet Lamp! my moth-like Muse has burnt its wings;
Or, like a dying swan who soars and sings, Young Love should teach Time, in his own. gray style,
All that thou art. Art thou not void of
A lovely soul formed to be blest and bless?
Vanquishing dissonance and gloom? A Star
Which moves not in the moving Heavens,
A smile amid dark frowns? a gentle tone
A Solitude, a Refuge, a Delight?
A Lute, which those whom Love has taught to play
Make music on, to soothe the roughest day And lull fond grief asleep? a buried treasure? A cradle of young thoughts of wingless pleas
A violet-shrouded grave of Woe? - I measure The world of fancies, seeking one like thee, And find-alas! mine own infirmity.
She met me, Stranger, upon life's rough
And lured me towards sweet Death; as Night by Day,
Winter by Spring, or Sorrow by swift Hope,