Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/261

 Those stars, that glide behind them or between, Now sparkling, now bedimm'd, but always seen; Yon crescent Moon, as fix'd as if it grew In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; I see them all so excellently fair, I see, not feel how beautiful they are!

My genial spirits fail,
 * And what can these avail,

To lift the smoth'ring weight from off my breast?
 * It were a vain endeavor,
 * Though I should gaze for ever

On that green light that lingers in the west: I may not hope from outward forms to win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

O Lady! we receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live: Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!
 * And would we aught behold, of higher worth,

Than that inanimate cold world allow'd