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As lofty as his mountains, and as calm
O SPIRIT, disembodied though thou art,
Its subtle music echoes all my woe.
Its perfect passion, its consummate pain,
Like to that splendid Swede who swayed the souls
THE wind of Fortune blew a seed that fell
And from it sprang a flower, and bloomed full well,
Upon its petals seemed to burn and dance
THRICE blessed love, I live for thee alone!
It sought to soar without thee, but it fell,
And shuns rude Passion with her stains and scars.
By faith in thee it ever shall be strong,
And not a doubt its sweet contentment mars.