XII. _On leaving some Friends at an early Hour._
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ive me a golden pen, and let me leanOn heap'd up flowers, in regions clear, and far;Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seenThe silver strings of heavenly harp atween:And let there glide by many a pearly car,Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,And half discovered wings, and glances keen.The while let music wander round my ears.And as it reaches each delicious ending,Let me write down a line of glorious tone,And full of many wonders of the spheres:For what a height my spirit is contending!'Tis not content so soon to be alone.
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