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Therefore thou art not wrong,

Israfeli, who despisest An unimpassioned song ; To thee the laurels belong,

Best bard, because the wisest ! Merrily live, and long !

The ecstasies above

With thy burning measures suitThy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,

With the fervour of thy lute-
Well may the stars be mute !

Yes, Heaven is thine ; but this

Is a world of sweets and sours ;

Our flowers are merely-flowers, And the shadow of thy perfect bliss

Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell

Where Israfel

Hath dwelt, and he where I,

He might not sing so wildly well

A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell

From my lyre within the sky.

FOR ANNIE.

THANK Heaven ! the crisis

The danger is past, And the lingering illness

Is over at lastAnd the fever called "Living"

Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know

I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move

As I lie at full lengthBut no matter !—I feel

I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,

Now, in my bed, That any beholder

Might fancy me deadMight start at beholding me,

Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,

The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now,

With that horrible throbbing At heart :-ah, that horrible,

Horrible throbbing ;

The sickness—the nausea

The pitiless pain-
Have ceased, with the fever

That maddened my brainWith the fever called “Living”

That burned in my brain.

And oh ! of all tortures

That torture the worst

Has abated—the terrible

Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river

Of Passion accurst:

I have drunk of a water

That quenches all thirst :

Of a water that flows

With a lullaby sound, From a spring but a very few

Feet under groundFrom a cavern not very

far Down under ground.

And ah ! let it never

Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy

And narrow my bed ;

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