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     As, when some bright lake lies open
To the sunny skies,

Every wing of bird above it,
     Every light cloud floating on,
Glitters like that flashing mirror
     In the self-same sun.

But upon thy youthful forehead
     Something like a shadow lies;
And a serious soul is looking
     From thy earnest eyes.

With an early introversion,
     Through the forms of outward things,
Seeking for the subtle essence,
     And the hidden springs.

Deeper than the gilded surface
     Hath thy wakeful vision seen,
Farther than the narrow present
     Have thy journeyings been.

Thou hast midst Life's empty noises
     Heard the solemn steps of Time,
And the low mysterious voices
     Of another clime.

All the mystery of Being
     Hath upon thy spirit pressed,—
Thoughts which, like the Deluge wanderer,
     Find no place of rest:

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