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of thee when night's dark shadows fly,

And morning's ray spreads slowly o'er the hills;

When girt with stars and clouds, the morn on high

Smiles on the birchen grove and gilds the rills.

I hear thee in the gentle music, made

By streams that rush to other streams—by flowers

That whisper to the winds, or catch the showers—

Or green leaves rustling in the vernal glade.

Thee do I see—thee would I recognize—

A pilgrim hasting to a holy shrine;

When mists that seem all-sacred wrap the skies,

With thee I dwell, and I am ever thine;

Thus soul-united—there shall never be

Aught but my grosser nature far from thee.