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In the still sepulchre of my own mind,
O thou that readest! take this parable Home to thy bosom; think as I have thought, And feel as I have felt, through all the changes, Which Time, Life, Death, the world's great actors,
wrought, While centuries swept like morning dreams before
And thou shalt find this moral to my song:
Part I. Day.
The mountains of this glorious land Are conscious beings to mine eye, When at the break of day they stand Like giants, looking through the sky, To hail the sun's unrisen car, That gilds their diadems of snow; While one by one, as star by star, Their peaks in ether glow.
Their silent presence fills my soul,