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But one bright moment is all thine own, The one ere thy visible presence is known; When, like the wind of the South, thy power, Sunning the heavens, sweetening the flower, Is felt, but not seen. Thou art sweet and calm As the sleep of a child, as the dew-fall of balm. Fear has not darkened thee; Hope has not made The blossoms expand, it but opens to fade. Nothing is known of those wearing fears Which will shadow the light of thy after-years. Then art thou bliss:—but once throw by The veil which shrouds thy divinity; Stand confessed,—and thy quiet is fled! Wild flashes of rapture may come instead, But pain will be with them. What may restore The gentle happiness known before?