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I never saw a nymph or dryad fly
Through forest glen or sun-streaked glade,
Or heard dancing maidens in gold brocade,
Festooned with flowers and garlands of rye.
The nightingale never stood and sang on high
Outside my window in the balmy shade,
Leading me to places, unafraid--
To the verdant pasture or starry sky.
No, I sat still in silent reverie,
Then read of your sweet dear 'Endymion,'
Heard the shepherd's pipe high behind me
And felt feathers soft of each gold pinion.
Over the Spanish Steps they lifted me,
Your Muse and I aloft in gentle union.
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