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Y spirit like a charmèd bark doth
Upon the liquid waves of thy sweet singing,
Far away into the regions dim
Of rapture as a boat, with swift sails winging
Its way adown some many-winding river.
A Fragment: To Music
ILVER key of the fountain of
Where the spirit drinks till the
brain is wild;
Softest grave of a thousand fears,
Where their mother, Care, like a drowsy
Is laid asleep in flowers.
70, Music, thou art not the "food of Love,"
Unless Love feeds upon its own
Till it becomes all Music murmurs of.
Supposed to Be Addressed to William Godwin
IGHTY eagle! thou that soarest
And when night descends defiest