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SONNET

TO THE GOLDEN THREAD OF A SYMPHONY.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

AIRILY, fragrantly,

Blossom of dreamland,

Floatest thou listlessly hither to me,

Aimlessly, vagrantly,

As a waif wind-manned,

Borne on the mists of thy rhythm-moved sea.

Art thou an iris-ray,

Faintly led hither,

Raying the true on a tone-poet's pure thought?

Or but from Poesy,

Having no whither,

Only in fantasy e'er to be sought?

Ah, let me leave with thee!

For my soul moveth,

Yearning ineffably for thy fair strand;

Strangely doth grieve with thee,

E'en while it loveth, -

Sing, then, O, sing to me, where is thy land?

S.

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