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106

XCVIII. FAR, FAR AWAY

Far, far away I bear thee—towards new fields
Of wondrous thought; oh, bid the gentle flowers
Of earth farewell—bid farewell to the bowers
Of youth, and all that common pleasure yields:
Prepare to traverse the immortal plains
With me,—with me to watch the swift-winged hours,—
With me to enter into what remains
Of perfect rest: thy past keen time devours.
Behold, the skies are wonderful in hue,
The dawn is on the mountains, deepening blue,—
Great spirits with thee on God's hill-tops tread:
Come: enter into heaven, O fairest flower
Therein,—I give thee that angelic power,—
The immortal wreath I twine around thy head.