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Rh

Of visible poetry have long been past!— No fear that the young hunter may profane The haunt of some immortal; but there still— For the heart clings to old idolatry, If not with true belief, with tenderness,— Lingers a spirit in the woods and flowers Which have a Grecian memory,—some tale Of olden love or grief linked with their bloom, Seem beautiful beyond all other ones. The marble pillars are laid in the dust, The golden shrine and its perfume are gone; But there are natural temples still for those Eternal though dethroned Deities, Where from green altars flowers send up their incense: This fount is one of them. - - -