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Flowers, in deepest shadowy nooks, Nurslings of the loneliest brooks, Unto them have yielded up Fragrant bell and starry cup: Chaplets are on every brow— —What hath stayed the wanderers now? Lo! a grey and rustic tomb, Bowered amidst the rich wood-gloom ; Whence these words their stricken spirits melt, —"I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt."

There is many a summer sound That pale sepulchre around; Thro' the shade young birds are glancing, Insect-wings in sun-streaks dancing; Glimpses of blue festal skies Pouring in when soft winds rise; Violets o'er the turf below Shedding out their warmest glow;