Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/233

 To which the living spirit in our frame, That loves not to behold a lifeless thing, Transfuses its own pleasures, its own will.


 * How oft, at school, with most believing mind,

Presageful, have I gaz'd upon the bars, To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt Of my sweet birth-place; and the old church-tower, Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang From morn to evening, all the hot ) So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me With a ) pleasure, falling on mine ear Most like articulate sounds of things to come! So gaz'd I, till the soothing things, I dreamt, Lull'd me to sleep, and sleep prolong'd my dreams! And so I brooded all the following morn, Aw'd by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye Fix'd with mock study on my swimming book: Save if the door half open'd, and I snatch'd A hasty glance, and still my heart leapt up, For still I hop'd to see the stranger's face, Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, My play-mate when we both were cloth'd alike!

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