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Ah, sweet ideal!
Wert thou but real,
And warm and rosy, and flesh and blood,
Surely such spring would,
Surely soft spring could
Make my sere heart fresh bloom and bud.


For such newcomer
Some Indian summer
Would surely revisit these autumn days,
And sun and showers
Bring back the flowers
Wasted and withered in bygone Mays.


And should wild winter
His snow spears splinter,
And strive to shut up the world in ice;
Surely my love would,
Sure then, my love should
Safety to shelter thee serve and suffice.


Why then thou dear heart,
Why should we two part?
Why wilt thou hide in the gloomy night?
Bright though the moon beams,
Brighter the sun seems,
Haste, love, to join in the day's delight.


Alas! my fairy,
Fickle, contrary,
Haunts and yet hides from my waking life;
Delicate dream-sprite
Dies with each daylight,
Hates the hot day and its toil and strife.


Ah, for the night then!
The quiet night when
She comes to wake me, and kiss me, and take me
Unto her own land,
Fairest unknown land
In some far heaven or fairy sea.


Haste thee, sweet lover,
Hasten to cover
The earth with darkness, and thither away,
And for thy beauty,
Life's dule and duty
Shall seem but a dream, and the night as day.