What know you of the soul from whence it sprung? Dost dream the poet ever speaks aloud His secret thought unto the listening crowd fG otake the murmuring sea-shell from the shore You have its shape, its colour and no more. It tells not one of those vast mysteries That lie beneath the surface of the seas. Our songs are shells, cast out by waves of thought. Here, take them at your pleasure ;but think not You ve seen beneath the surface of the waves, Where lie our shipwrecks, and our coral caves.
(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don't occur in the book.)
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