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AGAIN I see my bliss at hand,
The town, the lake are here;
My Marguerite smiles upon the strand,1
I know that graceful figure fair,
I know that soft, enkerchief'd hair,
And those sweet eyes of blue.
Again I spring to make my choice;
I hear a God's tremendous voice:
"Be counsell'd, and retire."
Ye guiding Powers who join and part, What would ye have with me?
Ah, warn some more ambitious heart, And let the peaceful be!
YE storm-winds of Autumn !
Who rush by, who shake
The window, and ruffle
The gleam-lighted lake;
Who cross to the hill-side
Thin-sprinkled with farms,
Where the high woods strip sadly
Their yellowing arms—
Ye are bound for the mountains!
Ah! with you let me go
Where your cold, distant barrier,
The vast range of snow,
Through the loose clouds lifts dimly
Its white peaks in air—
How deep is their stillness!
Ah, would I were there!
But on the stairs what voice is this I hear, Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear?