The god of music dwelleth out of doors.
Treasure the shadow. ... There are no shadows save from substance cast.
I gave thee what could not be heard
What had not been given before
The beat of my heart I gave !
To Death I yield, but not to Doubt, who slays before!
Who turns away from gazing at the sun Sees its dusk images fill all the air. It is not otherwise when Hope is done: Her darkling phantoms make the heaven of Despair.
The spirit of the year, like bacchant crowned, With lighted torch goes careless on his way; And soon bursts into flame the maple's spray, And vines are running fire along the ground.
I follow my law and fulfil it all duly and look! when your doubt runneth high North points to the needle!
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