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By Edgar Allan Poe

          How often we forget all time, when lone
          Admiring Nature’s universal throne;
          Her woods — her wilds — her mountains — the intense
          Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!
          — Byron: The Island.


          In youth have I known one with whom the Earth
          In secret communing held — as he with it,
          In day light, and in beauty from his birth:
          Whose fervid, flick’ring torch of life was lit
          From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
          A passionate light-such for his spirit was fit —
          And yet that spirit knew not, in the hour
          Of its own fervor — what had o’er it power.


          Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
          To a fever by the moon beam that hangs o’er,
          But I will half believe that wild light fraught
          With more of sov’reignty than ancient lore
          Hath ever told — or is it of a thought
          The unembodied essence, and no more
          That with a quick’ning spell doth o’er us pass
          As dew of the night-time, o’er the summer grass.


          Doth o’er us pass, when, as th’ expanding eye
          To the lov’d object — so the tear to the lid
          Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
          And yet it need not be — (that object) hid
          From us in life — but common — which doth lie
          Each hour before us — but then only bid
          With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken
          T’ awake us —’Tis a symbol and a token [[,]]


          Of what in other worlds shall be — and giv’n
          In beauty by our God, to those alone
          Who otherwise would fall from life and Heav’n
          Drawn by their heart’s passion, and that tone,
          That high tone of the spirit which hath striv’n
          Tho’ not with Faith — with godliness — whose throne
          With desp’rate energy ‘t hath beaten down;
          Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
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