Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/260

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My spirit would have pour'd itself in song, Have learn'd a language from the rustling leaves, The singing of the birds, and of the tide. Perchance, then, happy had I never known Another thought could be attach'd to song Than of its own delight. Oh! let me pause Over this earlier period, when my heart Mingled its being with its pleasures, fill'd With rich enthusiasm, which once flung Its purple colouring o'er all things of earth, And without which our utmost power of thought But sharpens arrows that will drink our blood. Like woman's soothing influence o'er man, Enthusiasm is upon the mind; Softening and beautifying that which is Too harsh and sullen in itself. How much