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The spotted deer bask in the fresh moonlight
Before our gate, and the slow, silent night
Is measured by the pants of their calm sleep.
Be this our home in life, and when years heap
Their withered hours, like leaves, on our decay,
Let us become the overhanging day,
Under the roof of blue Ionian weather,
With lightest winds, to touch their para
Or linger, where the pebble-paven shore, Under the quick, faint kisses of the sea Trembles and sparkles as with ecstasy,Possessing and possest by all that is Within that calm circumference of bliss, And by each other, till to love and live Be one-or, at the noontide hour, arrive Where some old cavern hoar seems yet to keep
The moonlight of the expired night asleep,
Through which the awakened day can never peep;
A veil for our seclusion, close as Night's, Where secure sleep may kill thine innocent lights;
Sleep, the fresh dew of languid love, the rain
Whose drops quench kisses till they
And we will talk, until thought's melody Become too sweet for utterance, and it
In darkness? where was lorn Urania When Adonais died? With veiled eyes, 'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise She sate, while one, with soft enamored breath,
Rekindled all the fading melodies With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath,
He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death.
Oh weep for Adonais-he is dead! Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep!
Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed
Thy fiery tears, and let thy lov'd heart keep,
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep;
For he is gone, where all things wise and fair
Descend;-oh, dream not that the amorous Deep
Will yet restore him to the vital air; Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair.
Most musical of mourners, weep again
The priest, the slave, and the liberticide, Trampled and mocked with many a loathéd rite
Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified, Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite
Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of light.
Most musical of mourners, weep anew! Not all to that bright station dared to climb;
And happier they their happiness who knew,
Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time
In which suns perished; others more sublime,
Struck by the envious wrath of man or God,
Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime;
And some yet live, treading the thorny road,
Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode.