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BY EDGAR A. POE.
daughter of old time thou art,
Who alterest all things with thy piercing
Why pray'st thou thus upon the poet's heart —
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities!
How shall he love thee, or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering,
To seek for treasure in the jewell'd skies,
Albeit he soar with an undaunted wing.
Hast thou not dragg'd Diana from her car,
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood,
To seek for shelter in some happier star,
The gentle Nais from the fountain flood.
The elfin from the greenwood and from me,
The summer's dream beneath the shrubbery.