To mingle with the light, and mellow it;
There’s not a flower that timidly uplifts
Its smiling face, to look upon the Dawn,
Or bows its head to worship silently
The awful glory of the midnight stars,
But what takes on a gentler grace for thee,
And for thy sake a sweeter incense flings
From out its golden censer.
Nor, my friend,
Will thy dull ears awaken to the songs,