These strewn thoughts, by the mountain pathway sprung, | a | ||||
I conned for comfort, till I ceased to grieve, | b | ||||
And with these flowering thorns I dare to weave | b | ||||
The crown, great Mother, on thine altar hung. | a | ||||
5 |
Teach thou a larger speech to my loosed tongue, | a | |||
And to mine opened eyes thy secrets give, | c | ||||
That in thy perfect love I learn to live, | c | ||||
And in thine immortality be young. | a | ||||
The soul is not on earth an alien thing | d | ||||
10 |
That hath her life's rich sources otherwhere; | e | |||
She is a parcel of the sacred air. | e | ||||
She takes her being from the breath of Spring, | d | ||||
The glance of Phoebus is her fount of light, | f | ||||
And her long sleep a draught of primal night. | f | ||||
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