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The beings of the mind are not of clay; Essentially immortal, they create And multiply in us a brighter ray, And more beloved existence; that which Fate Prohibits to dull life, in this our state Of mortal bondage.

to me with your triumphs and your woes, Ye forms, to life by glorious poets brought! I sit alone with flowers, and vernal boughs, In the deep shadow of a voiceless thought; 'Midst the glad music of the spring alone, And sorrowful for visions that are gone!