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Not charioted by bacchus and his pards
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but on the viewless wings of poesy
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though the'dull brain perplexes and retards
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Already with thee! Tender is the night
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and haply the queen- moon is on her throne
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cluster d around by all her starry fays
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But here there is no light
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save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
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through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways
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I cannot see what flowers are at my feet
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nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs
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But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet