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Wherefore that faint smile of thine,
Some honey-converse feeds thy mind,
Lovest thou the doleful wind
When thou gazest at the skies?
Wander from the side o' the morn,
Breathing light against thy face,
And ye talk together still, In the language wherewith Spring Letters cowslips on the hill? Hence that look and smile of thine, Spiritual Adeline.
With a half-glance upon the sky
He spake of beauty: that the dull
He spake of virtue: not the gods
With lips depressed as he were meek,
The poet in a golden clime was born,
With golden stars above; Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.
He saw through life and death, through good and ill,
He saw through his own soul. The marvel of the everlasting will, An open scroll,
Before him lay: with echoing feet he threaded
The secret'st walks of fame: The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed And winged with flame,