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Until I feel, and hear, and see 
Sweet, visionary Power, like thee. 
For thou canst suit thy varying lore 
To shelter’d cot, or lonely shore, 
To river broad, or tinv rill, 
To cultured vale, or barren hill. 
There’s not a flower can ope its eye 
To street us as we wander bv, 
Or dewdrop gem the bloomy spray, 
Or Zephyr with that dewdrop play, 
But, if thy magic thou dispense, 
’T is gifted with intelligence. 
Sometimes — by virtue of a name 
Thou givest to lifeless tilings a claim 
On man’s regard; — from its fair bower 
How sweedy pleads yon little flower, 
“ Forget-me-not;” — while further on 
The speedwell breathes its benison. 
And here’s a fair and fragrant tree, 
Which from its name might seem to be 
The wanderer’s friend; — and so it proves ; 
For when with weary step he roves, 
It greets him on his toilsome way 
With flowers which yield the breath of May, 
