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111 tbe Field From Painting by L. Hodebert

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And his affections dark as Erebus : Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music!

William Shakespeare.


(From "The Lotos-Eaters ")

There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the

blissful skies.
Here are cool mosses deep,
And thro' the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers

weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

Alfred Tennyson.


A Fragment

I pant for the music which is divine,

My heart in its thirst is a dying flower; Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine,

Loosen the notes in a silver shower; Like a herbless plain for the gentle rain, I gasp, I faint, till they wake again.

Let me drink of the spirit of that sweet sound,

More, O more! I am thirsting yet,
It loosens the serpent which care has bound

Upon my heart, to stifle it;
The dissolving strain, through every vein,
Passes into my heart and brain.

As the scent of a violet withered up,

Which grew by the brink of a silver lake, When the hot noon has drained its dewy cup And mist there was none its thirst to

slake, And the violet lay dead while the odor flew On the wings of the wind o'er the waters


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