To A Wind-Flower
I Teach me the secret of thy loveliness, That, being made wise, I may aspire to be As beautiful in thought, and so express Immortal truths to earth's mortality; Though to my soul ability be less Than 't is to thee, O sweet anemone. II Teach me the secret of thy innocence, That in simplicity I may grow wise; Asking from Art no other recompense Than the approval of her own just eyes; So may I rise to some fair eminence, Though less than thine, O cousin of the skies. III Teach me these things; through whose high knowledge, I,-- When Death hath poured oblivion through my veins, And brought me home, as all are brought, to lie In that vast house, common to serfs and Thanes,-- I shall not die, I shall not utterly die, For beauty born of beauty--that remains.
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