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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-
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
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.
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-
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
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
And narrow my bed ;