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Adieu
I love the saintly chant of the winds touching their odorous fingers to the harp of the angel, Spring,—
I love the undiscording sound of thousands of birds, whose concord of song echoes on the rivulet afar,—
I muse on the solemn mountain which waits in sound content for the time when the Lord calls forth,—
I roam with the wings of high-raised fantasy in the pure universe,—
Oh, I chant of the garden of Adam and Eve!
Behold! The night's shadow girding round our half-sphere, the world goes into reverie,—
Yea, my spirit in a dream rises afar to steal the matchless pearls of eternal stars!
I love the undiscording sound of thousands of birds, whose concord of song echoes on the rivulet afar,—
I muse on the solemn mountain which waits in sound content for the time when the Lord calls forth,—
I roam with the wings of high-raised fantasy in the pure universe,—
Oh, I chant of the garden of Adam and Eve!
Behold! The night's shadow girding round our half-sphere, the world goes into reverie,—
Yea, my spirit in a dream rises afar to steal the matchless pearls of eternal stars!
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