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III. Now fair thou art, Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart! Yet all the vision that within me wrought, I cannot make thee! Oh! I might have given Birth to creations of far nobler thought, I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven, Things not of such as die! But I have been Too much alone; a heart whereon to lean, With all these deep affections, that o'erflow My aching soul, and find no shore below; An eye to be my star, a voice to bring Hope o'er my path, like sounds that breathe of spring, These are denied me—dreamt of still in vain,— Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain, Are ever but as some wild fitful song, Rising triumphantly, to die ere long In dirge-like echoes.