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I'm weary, I'm weary,—I'm off with the wind: Can I find a worse fate than the one left behind? —Fair beings of moonlight, gay dwellers in air, O show me your kingdom! O let me dwell there! I see them, I see them!—how sweet it must be To sleep in yon lily!—is there room in't for me? I have flung my clay fetters; and now I but wear A shadowy seeming, a likeness of air.

Go harness my chariot, the leaf of an oak; A butterfly stud, and a tendril my yoke. Go swing me a hammock, the poles mignonette; I'll rock with its scent in the gossamer net.