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Sure I have heard those vestments sweeping o'er The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone In cool mid forest. Surely I have traced The rustle of those ample skirts about These grassy solitudes, and seen the flowers Lift up their heads, as still the whisper pass'd. Goddess! I have beheld those eyes before, And their eternal calm, and all that face, Or I have dream'd."—" Yes," said the supreme shape, "Thou hast dream'd of me; and awaking up Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side, Whose strings touch'd by thy fingers, all the vast Unwearied ear of the whole universe Listen'd in pain and pleasure at the birth Of such new tuneful wonder. Is't not strange That thou shouldst weep, so gifted? Tell me, youth, What sorrow thou canst feel; for I am sad When thou dost shed a tear: explain thy griefs To one who in this lonely isle hath been The watcher of thy sleep and hours of life, From the young day when first thy infant hand Pluck'd witless the weak flowers, till thine arm Could bend that bow heroic to all times. Show thy heart's secret to an ancient Power. Who hath forsaken old and sacred thrones For prophecies of thee, and for the sake Of loveliness new-born."—Apollo then, With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes, Thus answer'd, while his white melodious throat Throbb'd with the syllables:—"Mnemosyne! Thy name is on my tongue, I know not how; Why should I tell thee what thou so well seest?