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Are God and Nature then at strife,

That in this blindness of the frame

That Nature lends such evil My ghost may feel that thine is near.

dreams?

So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life;

That I, considering everywhere

Her secret meaning in her deeds,

And finding that of fifty seeds She often brings but one to bear,

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To find a stronger faith his own: And Power was with him in the night,

Far off thou art, but ever nigh:
I have thee still, and I rejoice:
I prosper, circled with thy voice:

Which makes the darkness and the I shall not lose thee though I die.

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[From The Princess.]
BUGLE SONG.

THE splendor falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

Blow, bugle: answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh, hark, oh, hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going! Oh, sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blow

ing!

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Ask me

no more: What answer Yet tears they shed: they had their should I give ?

I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:

Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!

Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live:

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part

Of sorrow: for when time was
ripe,

The still affection of the heart
Became an outward breathing type,
That into stillness passed again,

And left a want unknown before: Although the loss that brought us pain,

That loss but made us love the
more,

With farther lookings on. The kiss,
The woven arms, seem but to be
Weak symbols of the settled bliss,

The comfort, I have found in thee: But that God bless thee, dear - who wrought

Two spirits to one equal mindWith blessings beyond hope or thought,

With blessings which no words can find.

Arise, and let us wander forth,

To yon old mill across the wolds; For look, the sunset, south and north, Winds all the vale in rosy folds, And fires your narrow casement glass,

Touching the sullen pool below: On the chalk-hill the bearded grass Is dry and dewless, let us go.

[From The Miller's Daughter.]
WHAT I WOULD BE.

Ir is the miller's daughter,

And she is grown so dear, so dear,
That I would be the jewel

That trembles at her ear:
For hid in ringlets day and night,
I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle

About her dainty, dainty waist,
And her heart would beat against me,
In sorrow and in rest:

And I should know if it beat right,
I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

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