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The Cypress Wreath.
O, LADY, twine no wreath for me,
Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine
Let merry England proudly rear
Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare
Yes! twine for me the cypress bough;
SHE stood breast high amid the corn,
On her cheek an autumn flush,
Round her eyes her tresses fell,
And her hat, with shady brim,
Sure, I said, heaven did not mean,
To a Skylark.
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher,
From the earth thou springest
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are brightening,
Thou dost float and run;
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven,
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
What thou art, we know not;
From rainbow clouds there flow not
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Its aërial hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.