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Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems, To linger long by earthly streams; I clasp it, with th' alloy Of fear 'midst quivering joy, Yet must I perish if the gift depart— Leave me not, Love! to mine own beating heart!

The music from my lyre With thy swift step would flee; The world's cold breath would quench the starry fire In my deep soul—a temple filled with thee! Seal'd would the fountains lie, The waves of harmony, Which thou alone canst free!

Like a shrine 'midst rocks forsaken, Whence the oracle hath fled; Like a harp which none might waken But a mighty master dead;