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Still nursing the unconquerable hope,
Still clutching the inviolable shade,
With a free, onward impulse brushing through,
By night, the silver’d branches of the glade.
--
St. 22.

 

Matthew Arnold

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What beck'ning ghost, along the moonlight shade
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Come Grief, and sing a solemn dirge
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From central darkness now emerge,
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It runs through the reeds,
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Where'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade,
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Dream on! Though Heaven may woo our open eyes,
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