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TO A FRIEND.
No! those days are gone away,
No, the bugle sounds no more,
On the fairest time of June
To fair hostess Merriment,
Gone, the merry morris din;
So it is; yet let us sing
SLEEP AND POETRY.
As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete
What is more gentle than a wind in summer?
But what is higher beyond thought than thee?
The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,
No one who once the glorious sun has seen,
O Poesy! for thee I hold my pen,
The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring to me the fair
Visions of all places: a bowery nook
Will be elysium—an eternal book
Whence I may copy many a lovely saying
About the leaves, and flowers—about the playing
Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shade
Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid;
And many a verse from so strange influence
That we must ever wonder how, and whence
It came. Also imaginings will hover
Round my fire-side, and haply there discover
Vistas of solemn beauty, where I 'd wander
In happy silence, like the clear Meander
Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot
Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,
Or a green hill o'erspread with chequer'd dress
Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness,
Write on my tablets all that was permitted,
All that was for our human senses fitted.
Then the events of this wide world I 'd seize
Like a strong giant, and my spirit tease
Till at its shoulders, it should proudly see
Wings to find out an immortality.
Stop and consider ! life is but a day;
0 for ten years, that I may overwhelm Myself in poesy! so I may do the deed That my own soul has to itself decreed.