What command of language! remained my though
Of brightened posy, what inventive tale
Which far sheerer than flame darkened by nought
Arose such a feeling far from ghostly pale
For what I had read by the one whose soul
Defined as only genius can do
Certainty, and I became from it whole
Once it granted to me a different view
No delight it'd cast might escape me then
No existence, thus through this molding praise
I alone shall become by my pen
A mere whisper echoed beyond my days
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