To speak he tries.

‘Fair damsel, pity me! forgive that I

Thus violate thy bower’s sanctity!

O pardon me, for I am full of grief –

Grief born of thee, young angel! fairest thief!

Who stolen hast away the wings wherewith

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I was to top the heavens. Dear maid, sith

Thou art my executioner, and I feel

Loving and hatred, misery and weal,

Will in a few short hours be nothing to me,

And all my story that much passion slew me,

Do smile upon the evening of my days.

And, for my tortured brain begins to craze,

Be thou my nurse; and let me understand

How dying I shall kiss that lily hand.

Dost weep for me? Then should I be content.

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Scowl on, ye fates! until the firmament

Out-blackens Erebus, and the full-caverned earth

Crumbles into itself. By the cloud girth

Of Jove, those tears have given me a thirst

To meet oblivion.’ – As her heart would burst

The maiden sobbed awhile, and then replied:

‘Why must such desolation betide

As that thou speak’st of? Are not these green nooks

Empty of all misfortune? Do the brooks

Utter a gorgon voice? Does yonder thrush,

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Schooling its half-fledged little ones to brush

About the dewy forest, whisper tales? –

Speak not of grief, young stranger, or cold snails

Will slime the rose tonight. Though if thou wilt,

Methinks ‘twould be a guilt – a very guilt –

Not to companion thee, and sigh away

The light – the dusk – the dark – till break of day!’

‘Dear lady,’ said Endymion, ‘ ’tis past.

I love thee! and my days can never last.

That I may pass in patience still speak:

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Let me have music dying, and I seek

No more delight – I bid adieu to all.

Didst thou not after other climates call,

And murmur about Indian streams?’ – Then she,

Sitting beneath the midmost forest tree,

For pity sang this roundelay:

‘O Sorrow,

Why dost borrow

The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips? –

To give maiden blushes

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To the white rose bushes?

Or is’t thy dewy hand the daisy tips?

‘O Sorrow

Why dost borrow

The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye? –

To give the glow-worm light?

Or, on a moonless night,

To tinge, on syren shores, the salt sea-spry?

‘O Sorrow,

Why dost borrow

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The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue? –

To give at evening pale

Unto the nightingale,

That thou mayst listen the cold dews among?

‘O Sorrow,

Why dost borrow

Heart’s lightness from the merriment of May? –

A lover would not tread

A cowslip on the head,

Though he should dance from eve till peep of day –

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Nor any drooping flower

Held sacred for thy bower,

Wherever he may sport himself and play.

‘To Sorrow,

I bade good-morrow,

And thought to leave her far away behind.

But cheerly, cheerly,

She loves me dearly;

She is so constant to me, and so kind:

I would deceive her

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And so leave her,

But ah! she is so constant and so kind.

‘Beneath my palm trees, by the river side,

I sat a-weeping: in the whole world wide

There was no one to ask me why I wept –

And so I kept

Brimming the water-lily cups with tears

Cold as my fears.

‘Beneath my palm trees, by the river side,

I sat a-weeping: what enamoured bride,

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Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds,

But hides and shrouds

Beneath dark palm trees by a river-side?

‘And as I sat, over the light blue hills

There came a noise of revellers: the rills

Into the wide stream came of purple hue –

’Twas Bacchus and his crew!

The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills

From kissing cymbals made a merry din –

’Twas Bacchus and his kin!

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Like to a moving vintage down they came,

Crowned with green leaves, and faces all on flame –

All madly dancing through the pleasant valley,

To scare thee, Melancholy!

O then, O then, thou wast a simple name!

And I forgot thee, as the berried holly

By shepherds is forgotten, when, in June,

Tall chestnuts keep away the sun and moon –

I rushed into the folly!

‘Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood,

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Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood,

With sidelong laughing;

And little rills of crimson wine imbrued

His plump white arms, and shoulders, enough white

For Venus’ pearly bite;

And near him rode Silenus on his ass,

Pelted with flowers as he on did pass

Tipsily quaffing.

‘Whence came ye, merry Damsels! whence came ye!

So many, and so many, and such glee?

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Why have ye left your bowers desolate,

Your lutes and gentler fate? –

“We follow Bacchus! Bacchus on the wing,

A-conquering!

Bacchus, young Bacchus! good or ill betide,

We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide –

Come hither, lady fair, and joined be

To our wild minstrelsy!”

‘Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs! whence came ye!

So many, and so many, and such glee?

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Why have ye left your forest haunts, why left

Your nuts in oak-tree cleft? –

“For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree;

For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms,

And cold mushrooms;

For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth –

Great God of breathless cups and chirping mirth!

Come hither, lady fair, and joinèd be

To our mad minstrelsy!”

‘Over wide streams and mountains great we went,

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And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent,

Onward the tiger and the leopard pants,

With Asian elephants:

Onward these myriads – with song and dance,

With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians’ prance,

Web-footed alligators, crocodiles,

Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files,

Plump infant laughers mimicking the coil

Of seamen, and stout galley-rowers’ toil –

With toying oars and silken sails they glide,

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Nor care for wind and tide.

‘Mounted on panthers’ furs and lions’ manes,

From rear to van they scour about the plains;

A three days’ journey in a moment done:

And always, at the rising of the sun,

About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn,

On spleenful unicorn.

‘I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown

Before the vine-wreath crown!

I saw parched Abyssinia rouse and sing

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To the silver cymbals’ ring!

I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce

Old Tartary the fierce!

The kings of Ind their jewel-sceptres vail,

And from their treasures scatter pearlèd hail.

Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans,

And all his priesthood moans;

Before young Bacchus’ eye-wink turning pale. –

Into these regions came I following him,

Sick hearted, weary – so I took a whim

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To stray away into these forests drear

Alone, without a peer:

And I have told thee all thou mayest hear.

‘Young stranger!

I’ve been a ranger

In search of pleasure throughout every clime:

Alas, ’tis not for me!

Bewitched I sure must be,

To lose in grieving all my maiden prime.

‘Come then, Sorrow!

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Sweetest Sorrow!

Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast:

I thought to leave thee

And deceive thee,

But now of all the world I love thee best.

‘There is not one,

No, no, not one

But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid:

Thou art her mother,

And her brother,

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Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade.

O what a sigh she gave in finishing,

And look, quite dead to every worldly thing!

Endymion could not speak, but gazed on her;

And listened to the wind that now did stir

About the crispèd oaks full drearily,

Yet with as sweet a softness as might be

Remembered from its velvet summer song.

At last he said: ‘Poor lady, how thus long

Have I been able to endure that voice?

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Fair Melody! kind Siren! I’ve no choice –

I must be thy sad servant evermore:

I cannot choose but kneel here and adore.

Alas, I must not think – by Phoebe, no!

Let me not think, soft Angel! shall it be so?

Say, beautifullest, shall I never think?

O thou couldst foster me beyond the brink

Of recollection! make my watchful care

Close up its bloodshot eyes, nor see despair!

Do gently murder half my soul, and I

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Shall feel the other half so utterly! –

I’m giddy at that cheek so fair and smooth;

O let it blush so ever! let it soothe

My madness! let it mantle rosy-warm

With the tinge of love, panting in safe alarm. –

This cannot be thy hand, and yet it is;

And this is sure thine other softling – this

Thine own fair bosom, and I am so near!

Wilt fall asleep? O let me sip that tear!

And whisper one sweet word that I may know

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This is this world – sweet dewy blossom!’ – ‘Woe!

Woe! Woe to that Endymion! Where is he?’ –

Even these words went echoing dismally

Through the wide forest – a most fearful tone,

Like one repenting in his latest moan;

And while it died away a shade passed by,

As of a thunder-cloud. When arrows fly

Through the thick branches, poor ring-doves sleek forth

Their timid necks and tremble; so these both

Leant to each other trembling, and sat so

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Waiting for some destruction – when lo,

Foot-feathered Mercury appeared sublime

Beyond the tall tree tops; and in less time

Than shoots the slanted hail-storm, down he dropped

Towards the ground, but rested not, nor stopped

One moment from his home: only the sward

He with his wand light touched, and heavenward

Swifter than sight was gone – even before

The teeming earth a sudden witness bore

Of his swift magic. Diving swans appear

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Above the crystal circlings white and clear;

And catch the cheated eye in wide surprise,

How they can dive in sight and unseen rise –

So from the turf outsprang two steeds jet-black,

Each with large dark blue wings upon his back.

The youth of Caria placed the lovely dame

On one, and felt himself in spleen to tame

The other’s fierceness. Through the air they flew,

High as the eagles. Like two drops of dew

Exhaled to Phoebus’ lips, away they’re gone,

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Far from the earth away – unseen, alone,

Among cool clouds and winds, but that the free,

The buoyant life of song can floating be

Above their heads, and follow them untired. –

Muse of my native land, am I inspired?

This is the giddy air, and I must spread

Wide pinions to keep here; nor do I dread

Or height, or depth, or width, or any chance

Precipitous. I have beneath my glance

Those towering horses and their mournful freight.

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Could I thus sail, and see, and thus await

Fearless for power of thought, without thine aid?

There is a sleepy dusk, an odorous shade

From some approaching wonder, and behold

Those wingèd steeds, with snorting nostrils bold,

Snuff at its faint extreme, and seem to tire,

Dying to embers from their native fire!

There curled a purple mist around them; soon,

It seemed as when around the pale new moon

Sad Zephyr droops the clouds like weeping willow –

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’Twas Sleep slow journeying with head on pillow.

For the first time, since he came nigh dead-born

From the old womb of night, his cave forlorn

Had he left more forlorn; for the first time,

He felt aloof the day and morning’s prime –

Because into his depth Cimmerian

There came a dream, showing how a young man,

Ere a lean bat could plump its wintry skin,

Would at high Jove’s empyreal footstool win

An immortality, and how espouse

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Jove’s daughter, and be reckoned of his house.

Now was he slumbering towards heaven’s gate,

That he might at the threshold one hour wait

To hear the marriage melodies, and then

Sink downward to his dusky cave again.

His litter of smooth semi-lucent mist,

Diversely tinged with rose and amethyst,

Puzzled those eyes that for the centre sought;

And scarcely for one moment could be caught

His sluggish form reposing motionless.

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Those two on wingèd steeds, with all the stress

Of vision searched for him, as one would look

Athwart the sallows of a river nook

To catch a glance at silver-throated eels –

Or from old Skiddaw’s top, when fog conceals

His rugged forehead in a mantle pale,

With an eye-guess towards some pleasant vale

Descry a favourite hamlet faint and far.

These raven horses, though they fostered are

Of earth’s splenetic fire, dully drop

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Their full-veined ears, nostrils blood wide, and stop.

Upon the spiritless mist have they outspread

Their ample feathers, are in slumber dead –

And on those pinions, level in mid-air,

Endymion sleepeth and the lady fair.

Slowly they sail, slowly as icy isle

Upon a calm sea drifting: and meanwhile

The mournful wanderer dreams. Behold! he walks

On heaven’s pavement; brotherly he talks

To divine powers; from his hand full fain

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Juno’s proud birds are pecking pearly grain;

He tries the nerve of Phoebus’ golden bow,

And asketh where the golden apples grow;

Upon his arm he braces Pallas’ shield,

And strives in vain to unsettle and wield

A Jovian thunderbolt; arch Hebe brings

A full-brimmed goblet, dances lightly, sings

And tantalizes long; at last he drinks,

And lost in pleasure at her feet he sinks,

Touching with dazzled lips her starlight hand.

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He blows a bugle – an ethereal band

Are visible above: the Seasons four –

Green-kirtled Spring, flush Summer, golden store

In Autumn’s sickle, Winter frosty hoar –

Join dance with shadowy Hours; while still the blast,

In swells unmitigated, still doth last

To sway their floating morris. ‘Whose is this?

Whose bugle?’ he inquires. They smile – ‘O Dis!

Why is this mortal here? Dost thou not know

Its mistress’ lips? Not thou? – ’Tis Dian’s: lo!

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She rises crescented!’ He looks, ’tis she,

His very goddess: good-bye earth, and sea,

And air, and pains, and care, and suffering;

Good-bye to all but love! Then doth he spring

Towards her, and awakes – and, strange, o’erhead,

Of those same fragrant exhalations bred,

Beheld awake his very dream: the gods

Stood smiling; merry Hebe laughs and nods;

And Phoebe bends towards him crescented.

O state perplexing! On the pinion bed,

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Too well awake, he feels the panting side

Of his delicious lady. He who died

For soaring too audacious in the sun,

When that same treacherous wax began to run,

Felt not more tongue-tied than Endymion.

His heart leapt up as to its rightful throne,

To that fair shadowed passion pulsed its way –

Ah, what perplexity! Ah, welladay!

So fond, so beauteous was his bed-fellow,

He could not help but kiss her: then he grew

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A while forgetful of all beauty save

Young Phoebe’s, golden haired; and so ’gan crave

Forgiveness: yet he turned once more to look

At the sweet sleeper – all his soul was shook:

She pressed his hand in slumber; so once more

He could not help but kiss her and adore.

At this the shadow wept, melting away.

The Latmian started up: ‘Bright goddess, stay!

Search my most hidden breast! By truth’s own tongue,

I have no daedal heart. Why is it wrung

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To desperation? Is there naught for me,

Upon the bourne of bliss, but misery?’

These words awoke the stranger of dark tresses:

Her dawning love-look rapt Endymion blesses

With ’haviour soft. Sleep yawned from underneath.

‘Thou swan of Ganges, let us no more breathe

This murky phantasm! thou contented seem’st

Pillowed in lovely idleness, nor dream’st

What horrors may discomfort thee and me.

Ah, shouldst thou die from my heart-treachery! –

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Yet did she merely weep – her gentle soul

Hath no revenge in it. As it is whole

In tenderness, would I were whole in love!

Can I prize thee, fair maid, all price above,

Even when I feel as true as innocence?

I do, I do. – What is this soul then? Whence

Came it? It does not seem my own, and I

Have no self-passion or identity.

Some fearful end must be: where, where is it?

By Nemesis, I see my spirit flit

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Alone about the dark. Forgive me, sweet –

Shall we away?’ He roused the steeds: they beat

Their wings chivàlrous into the clear air,

Leaving old Sleep within his vapoury lair.

The good-night blush of eve was waning slow,

And Vesper, risen star, began to throe

In the dusk heavens silverly, when they

Thus sprang direct towards the Galaxy.

Nor did speed hinder converse soft and strange –

Eternal oaths and vows they interchange,

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In such wise, in such temper, so aloof

Up in the winds, beneath a starry roof,

So witless of their doom, that verily

’Tis well nigh past man’s search their hearts to see,

Whether they wept, or laughed, or grieved, or toyed –

Most like with joy gone mad, with sorrow cloyed.

Full facing their swift flight, from ebon streak,

The moon put forth a little diamond peak,

No bigger than an unobservèd star,

Or tiny point of fairy scimitar;

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Bright signal that she only stooped to tie

Her silver sandals, ere deliciously

She bowed into the heavens her timid head.

Slowly she rose, as though she would have fled,

While to his lady meek the Carian turned,

To mark if her dark eyes had yet discerned

This beauty in its birth – Despair! despair!

He saw her body fading gaunt and spare

In the cold moonshine. Straight he seized her wrist;

It melted from his grasp: her hand he kissed,

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And, horror! kissed his own – he was alone.

Her steed a little higher soared, and then

Dropped hawkwise to the earth.

There lies a den,

Beyond the seeming confines of the space

Made for the soul to wander in and trace

Its own existence, of remotest glooms.

Dark regions are around it, where the tombs

Of buried griefs the spirit sees, but scarce

One hour doth linger weeping, for the pierce

Of new-born woe it feels more inly smart:

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And in these regions many a venomed dart

At random flies; they are the proper home

Of every ill: the man is yet to come

Who hath not journeyed in this native hell.

But few have ever felt how calm and well

Sleep may be had in that deep den of all.

There anguish does not sting; nor pleasure pall:

Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate,

Yet all is still within and desolate.

Beset with plainful gusts, within ye hear,

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No sound so loud as when on curtained bier

The death-watch tick is stifled. Enter none

Who strive therefore: on the sudden it is won.

Just when the sufferer begins to burn,

Then it is free to him; and from an urn,

Still fed by melting ice, he takes a draught –

Young Semele such richness never quaffed

In her maternal longing! Happy gloom!

Dark Paradise! where pale becomes the bloom

Of health by due; where silence dreariest

540

Is most articulate; where hopes infest;

Where those eyes are the brightest far that keep

Their lids shut longest in a dreamless sleep.

O happy spirit-home! O wondrous soul!

Pregnant with such a den to save the whole

In thine own depth. Hail, gentle Carian!

For, never since thy griefs and woes began,

Hast thou felt so content: a grievous feud

Hath led thee to this Cave of Quietude.

Ay, his lulled soul was there, although upborne

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With dangerous speed, and so he did not mourn

Because he knew not whither he was going.

So happy was he, not the aerial blowing

Of trumpets at clear parley from the east

Could rouse from that fine relish, that high feast.

They stung the feathered horse: with fierce alarm

He flapped towards the sound. Alas, no charm

Could lift Endymion’s head, or he had viewed

A skyey masque, a pinioned multitude –

And silvery was its passing: voices sweet

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Warbling the while as if to lull and greet

The wanderer in his path. Thus warbled they,

While past the vision went in bright array.

‘Who, who from Dian’s feast would be away?

For all the golden bowers of the day

Are empty left? Who, who away would be

From Cynthia’s wedding and festivity?

Not Hesperus – lo! upon his silver wings

He leans away for highest heaven and sings,

Snapping his lucid fingers merrily! –

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Ah, Zephyrus! art here, and Flora too!

Ye tender bibbers of the rain and dew,

Young playmates of the rose and daffodil,

Be careful, ere ye enter in, to fill

Your baskets high

With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines,

Savory, latter-mint, and columbines,

Cool parsley, basil sweet, and sunny thyme –

Yea, every flower and leaf of every clime,

All gathered in the dewy morning. Hie

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Away! fly, fly! –

Crystalline brother of the belt of heaven,

Aquarius! to whom king Jove has given

Two liquid pulse streams ’stead of feathered wings,

Two fan-like fountains – thine illuminings

For Dian play:

Dissolve the frozen purity of air;

Let thy white shoulders silvery and bare

Show cold through watery pinions; make more bright

The Star-Queen’s crescent on her marriage night.

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Haste, haste away! –

Castor has tamed the planet Lion, see!

And of the Bear has Pollux mastery.

A third is in the race! who is the third

Speeding away swift as the eagle bird?

The ramping Centaur!

The Lion’s mane’s on end – the Bear how fierce!

The Centaur’s arrow ready seems to pierce

Some enemy – far forth his bow is bent

Into the blue of heaven. He’ll be shent,

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Pale unrelenter,

When he shall hear the wedding lutes a-playing! –

Andromeda! sweet woman! why delaying

So timidly among the stars? Come hither!

Join this bright throng, and nimbly follow whither

They all are going.

Danae’s Son, before Jove newly bowed,

Has wept for thee, calling to Jove aloud.

Thee, gentle lady, did he disenthrall:

Ye shall for ever live and love, for all

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Thy tears are flowing. –

By Daphne’s fright, behold Apollo! – ’

More

Endymion heard not: down his steed him bore,

Prone to the green head of a misty hill.

His first touch of the earth went nigh to kill.

‘Alas!’ said he, ‘were I but always borne

Through dangerous winds, had but my footsteps worn

A path in hell, for ever would I bless

Horrors which nourish an uneasiness

For my own sullen conquering: to him

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Who lives beyond earth’s boundary, grief is dim,

Sorrow is but a shadow. Now I see

The grass, I feel the solid ground – Ah, me!

It is thy voice – divinest! Where? – who? who

Left thee so quiet on this bed of dew?

Behold upon this happy earth we are;

Let us aye love each other; let us fare

On forest-fruits, and never, never go

Among the abodes of mortals here below,

Or be by phantoms duped.