II

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II

Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought

To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs oвАЩer,

But I will half believe that wild light fraught

With more of sovereignty than ancient lore

Hath ever toldвБ†вАФor is it of a thought

The unembodied essence, and no more

That with a quickening spell doth oвАЩer us pass

As dew of the night-time, oвАЩer the summer grass?