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And the legend, I feel, is a part
Of the hunger and thirst of the heart,
The frenzy and fire of the brain,
That grasps at the fruitage forbidden,
The golden pomegranates of Eden,

To quiet its fever and pain.



HAVE I dreamed 2 or was it real,
What I saw as in a vision,
When to marches hymeneal
In the land of the Ideal
Moved my thought o'er Fields Elysian?

What are these the guests whose glances Seemed like Sunshine gleaming round me?

These the wild, bewildering fancies,

That with dithyrambic dances

As with magic circles bound me !

Ah! how cold are their caresses

Pallid cheeks, and haggard bosoms

Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, And from loose, dishevelled tresses

Fall the hyacinthine blossoms'

O my songs whose winsome measures Filled my heart with secret rapture

Children of my golden leisures |

Must even your delights and pleasures

Fade and perish with the capture ?

Fair they seemed, those songs Sonorous, When they came to me unbidden;

Voices single, and in chorus,

Like the wild birds singing o'er us
In the dark of branches hidden.

Disenchantment | Disillusion
Must each noble aspiration

Come at last to this conclusion,

J arring discord, wild confusion,

Lassitude, renunciation ?

Not with steeper fall nor faster,
From the sun's serene dominions,

Not through brighter realms nor waster,

In swift ruin and disaster,

Icarus fell with shattered pinions !

Sweet Pandora! dear Pandora!
Why did mighty Jove create thee
Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora,
Beautiful as young Aurora,

If to win thee is to hate thee 7

No, not hate thee! for this feeling
Of unrest and long resistance

Is but passionate appealing,

A prophetic whisper stealing

O'er the chords of our existence.

Him whom thou dost once enamour,

Thou, beloved, never leavest :

In life’s discord, strife, and clamor,
Still he feels thy spell of glamour;

Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest.

Weary hearts by thee are lifted,
Struggling souls by thee are strengthened,

Clouds of fear asunder rifted,

Truth from falsehood cleansed and sifted,

Lives, like days in summer, lengthened

Therefore art thou ever dearer,
O my Sibyl, my deceiver !

For thou makest each mystery clearer,

And the unattained seems nearer,

When thou fillest my heart with fever !

Muse of all the Gifts and Graces !
Though the fields around us wither,

There are ampler realms and spaces,

Where no foot has left its traces:

Let us turn and wander thither 18 3%

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