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He stands amid the revellers with a joy, A scarcely conscious joy, in their delight; In it he has no part,—he stands alone; But the deep music haunts his dreaming ear,— But the fair forms flit o'er his dreaming eye,— And exquisite illusions fill his soul With loveliness to pour in future song. He leant beside a casement, and the moon Shed her own stillness o'er the hectic cheek Whereon the fever of the mind had fed; His eyes have turn'd towards th' eternal stars, Drinking the light into their shadowy depths, Almost as glorious and as spiritual. The night-wind touch'd his forehead, with it ran A faint slight shudder through his wasted frame,— Alas! how little can bring down our thoughts