The scene that to a careless eye
Seems nothing but itself to be,
Has charmed earth and haunted sky—
Seen as the minstrel’s eye can see.
Himself is but an instrument
Inspired by that diviner hour,
When first Imagination lent
To earth its passion and its power.
Its presence to the heart of man
Is like the sunshine to the earth:
The soul of its eternal plan,
And whence the beautiful has birth.
All things divine and elevate
Attend its mighty influence here—
The daylight of our actual state,
The moral glory of our sphere.
Without its being, earth’s fair face
Has no sweet shadows, flung of yore;
The present lacks the sacred grace
Bequeathed by those that are no more.
Without such lovely light the while,
Dark, silent, strange, all scenes would be;
And Ithaca were but an isle,
Unknown, upon a nameless sea!
But now a thousand years come back,
The gift of one immortal line;
Each with new splendor on its track,
As stars upon the midnight shine.
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