William Wordsworth

The Fairest, Brightest, Hues Of Ether Fade

The fairest, brightest, hues of ether fade; The sweetest notes must terminate and die; O Friend! thy flute has breathed a harmony Softly resounded through this rocky glade; Such strains of rapture as the Genius played In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit high; He who stood visible to Mirza's eye, Never before to human sight betrayed. Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening spread! The visionary Arches are not there, Nor the green Islands, nor the shining Seas: Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head, Whence I have risen, uplifted, on the breeze Of harmony, above all earthly care.

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