Thou still ravished, fair senses,
A happy child from serenity, from grooves.
Thou slowly slid, on the farthest, unvisited shadows.
If soul be a name for wild ecstasy;
Play on the muses of unheard melodies, sweeter and softer.
O lute! From the pastoral lips, is thy lament,
A nightingale's adieu to the spring. Is thy gentle pause,
A beginning anew.
The incense from earth, budding trees,
Purple flowers, on the shores of silence, neither kiss;
Nor part. The lightening on the skies, a weeping cloud,
The night's oft treaded path.
Do not fade; my eyes follow a sketch in black.
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