| Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: | |
| What if my leaves are falling like its own? | |
| The tumult of thy mighty harmonies | |
| Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, | 60 |
| Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, | |
| My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! | |
| Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, | |
| Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth; | |
| And, by the incantation of this verse, | 65 |
| Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth | |
| Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! | |
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth MOre: http://bartleby.com/101/610.html |
The forest and the poet. That is, take from the forest, and from me, a deep autumn-like tone, in the sound that you (the wind) make when you blow the dead leaves free from the trees in autumn, and when you (figuratively) blow my (dead) poetic thoughts free from me.
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