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The sound of festival is in my ear, Haunting it with faint music; the red lights Shine fitfully reflected in the lake, Where I have never seen aught but the moon Mirror'd before, or the bright quiet stars. A weight is on the air, for ev'ry breeze Has, bird-like, folded up its wings for sleep. It is like mockery of the silent night To choose her hours for merriment; but thus We struggle with all natural laws, and make Our life a strange disorder. Yet how sweet Comes up the distant music!—though 'tis sad.