Dark stranger on the teeming map of fate
Fabric, that seem’st a thing alike apart
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Ave! Once more touch the strings
That Memory may feed upon the strain,
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"I do beseech thee, God, show me thy face."
"Come up to me in Sinai on the morn!
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I.
The times are changed, and gone the day
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Thrice-happy he whose heart, each new-born night,
When old-worn day hath vanished o'er earth's brim,
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I walked all night: the darkness did not yield.
Around me fell a mist, a weary rain,
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I.
If thou hadst been a sculptor, what a race
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I.
Upon a rock I sat--a mountain-side,
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First-born of the creating Voice!
Minister of God's Spirit, who wast sent
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TO THEM THAT MOURN
Let your tears flow; let your sad sighs have scope;
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My Lily snatches not my gift;
Glad is she to be fed,
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I.
She sitteth at the Master's feet
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My TO-MORROW is but a flitting
Fancy of the brain;
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Where went the feet that hitherto have come?
Here yawns no gulf to quench the flowing past!
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It is May, and the moon leans down at night
Over a blossomy land;
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Near him she stole, rank after rank;
She feared approach too loud;
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'Tis time to sleep, my little boy:
Why gaze thy bright eyes so?
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It is no winter night comes down
Upon our hearts, dear friends of old;
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A still dark joy! A sudden face!
Cold daylight, footsteps, cries!
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Content Primroses,
With hearts at rest in your thick leaves' soft care,
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A little bird sat on the edge of her nest;
Her yellow-beaks slept as sound as tops;
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\Bing, Bim, Bang, Bome!\
Sang the Bell to himself in his house at home,
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In the air why such a ringing?
On the earth why such a droning?
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Imagination cannot rise above thee;
Near and afar I see thee, and I love thee;
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Enough he labours for his hire;
Yea, nought can pay his pain;
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With joyful pride her heart is high:
Her humble house doth hold
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In the desert by the bush,
Moses to his heart said \Hush\.
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Were I a skilful painter,
My pencil, not my pen,
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Rich is the fancy which can double back
All seeming forms, and from cold icicles
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