Page:The Midsummer Night.djvu/44

 And thro' the crimson portals of the east

Gush down a thousand golden streams of light.

The Nightingale still chaunts from the deep grove,

The Lark mounts upward, with exulting trill.

How wondrous fair this world! Each pulse, each breath,

Each fibre of my body, thrills with joy!

Whither? ah whither? I am rapt! am lost!