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Adieu, my daintiest Dream! although so vast My love is still for thee. The hour may come When we shall meet in pure elysium. On earth I may not love thee, and therefore Doves will I offer up, and sweetest store All through the teeming year: so thou wilt shine On me, and on this damsel fair of mine, And bless our simple lives. My Indian bliss! My river-lily bud! one human kiss! One sigh of real breath—one gentle squeeze, Warm as a dove's nest among summer trees, And warm with dew at ooze from living blood! Whither didst melt? Ah, what of that!—all good We'll talk about—no more of dreaming.—Now, Where shall our dwelling be? Under the brow Of some steep mossy hill, where ivy dun Would hide us up, although spring leaves were none; And where dark yew-trees, as we rustle through, Will drop their scarlet-berry cups of dew! O thou wouldst joy to live in such a place! Dusk for our loves, yet light enough to grace Those gentle limbs on mossy bed reclined: For by one step the blue sky shouldst thou find, And by another, in deep dell below, See, through the trees, a little river go All in its mid-day gold and glimmering. Honey from out the gnarled hive I'll bring, And apples, wan with sweetness, gather thee,— Cresses that grow where no man may them see, And sorrel untorn by the dew-claw'd stag: Pipes will I fashion of the syrinx flag, That thou mayst always know whither I roam,