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Sapless, grey, and ivy dun,
Now the last day of many days,
We wandered to the Pine Forest
That skirts the Ocean's foam, The lightest wind was in its nest,
The tempest in its home.
The whispering waves were half asleep,
The clouds were gone to play,
The smile of Heaven lay.
It seemed as if the day were one
Sent from beyond the skies, Which shed to earth above the sun
A light of Paradise.
We paused amid the Pines that stood
The giants of the waste,
With stems like serpents interlaced.
How calm it was-tlie silence there
By such a chain was bound, That even the busy woodpecker
Made stiller by her sound
The inviolable quietness ;
The breath of peace we drew, With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew.
It seemed that from the remotest seat
Of the white mountain's waste, To the bright flower beneath our feet,
A magic circle traced ;
A spirit interfused around,
A thinking silent life,
Our mortal Nature's strife.
For stillit seemea the centre of
The magie circle there, Was one whose being filled with love
The breathless atmosphere.
Were not the crocusses that grew
Under that ilex tree,
As ever fed the bee?
We stood beside the pools that lie
Under the forest bough, And each seemed like a sky
Gulphed in a world below;
A purple firmament of light,
Which in the dark earth lay,
And clearer than the day
In which the massy forests grew,
As in the upper air,
Than any waving there.
Like one beloved, the scene had lent
To the dark water's breast Its every leaf and lineament
With that clear truth expressed.
There lay far glades and neighbouring lawn,
Aud through the dark green crowd The white sun twinkling like the dawn
Under a speckled cloud.
Sweet views, which in our world above
Can never well be seen,
Of that fair forest green.
And all was interfused beneath
Within an Elysium air,
A silence sleeping there.
Until a wandering wind crept by,
Like an unwelcome thought,
Blots thy bright image out.
With the joyous and the free
Thou wilt scoff at pain.
As a lizard with the shade
Of a trembling leaf,
Even the sighs of grief
Let me set my mournful ditty
To a merry measure,
Thou wilt come for pleasure.
I love all that thou lovest,
Spirit of Delight !
And the starry night;
I love snow, and all the forms
Of the radiant frost:
Every thing almost
I love tranquil solitude,
And such society
As is quiet, wise, and good;
Between thee and me
I love Love-though he has wings,
And like light can flee,
Spirit, I love thee
Thus to be lost and thus to sink and die,
Perchance were death indeed !-Constantia, turn! In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie,
Even though the sounds which were thy voice, whick burn Between thy lips, are laid to sleep;
Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odour it is yet, And from thy touch like fire doth leap.
Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet,
A breathless awe, like the swift change
Uuseen, but felt in youthful slumbers, Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange,
Thou breathest now in fast ascending numbers. The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven
By the inchantment of thy strain,