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The pettiness of praise to which at times My soul has bow’d; and I have scorn'd myself For that my cheek could burn, my pulses beat At idle words. And yet, it is in vain For the full heart to press back every throb Wholly upon itself. Ay, fair as are The visions of a poet's solitude, There must be something more for happiness; They seek communion. It had seem'd to me A miser's selfishness, had I not sought To share with others those impassion'd thoughts, Like light, or hope, or love, in their effects. When I have watch'd the stars write on the sky In characters of light, have seen the moon Come like veiled priestess from the east, While, like a hymn, the wind swell'd on mine ear,