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IV. Yet the world will see Little of this, my parting work, in thee, Thou shalt have fame! Oh, mockery! give the reed From storms a shelter,—give the drooping vine Something round which its tendrils may entwine,— Give the parch'd flower a rain-drop, and the meed Of love's kind words to woman! Worthless fame! That in his bosom wins not for my name Th' abiding-place it ask'd! Yet how my heart, In its own fairy world of song and art, Once beat for praise!—Are those high longings o’er? That which I have been can I be no more?— Never, oh! never more; tho' still thy sky Be blue as then, my glorious Italy! And tho' the music, whose rich breathings fill Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still, And tho' the mantle of thy sunlight streams, Unchang'd on forms, instinct with poet-dreams;