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of starry clearness bright, Quivering urn of colour'd light, Hast thou drawn thy cup's rich dye From th' intenseness of the sky? From a long, long fervent gaze Through the year's first golden days, Up that blue and silent deep, Where, like things of sculptur'd sleep, Alabaster clouds repose, With the sunshine on their snows? Thither was thy heart's love turning, Like a censer ever burning,