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To all our nature's finest touches, all That wakens sympathy: and I should be Alone no longer; every wind that bore, And every lip that breathed one strain of mine, Henceforth partake in all my joy and grief. Oh! glorious is the gifted poet's lot, And touching more than glorious: 't is to be Companion of the heart's least earthly hour; The voice of love and sadness, calling forth Tears from their silent fountain: 't is to have Share in all nature's loveliness; giving flowers A life as sweet, more lasting than their own; And catching from green wood and lofty pine Language mysterious as musical; Making the thoughts, which else had only been Like colours on the morning's earliest hour,