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Goody Blake and Harry Gill by William Wordsworth

The soaring lark is blest as proud

When at heaven’s gate she sings;

The roving bee proclaims aloud

Her flight by vocal wings;

While Ye, in lasting durance pent,

Your silent lives employ

For something more than dull content,

Though haply less than joy.
Yet might your glassy prison seem

A place where joy is known,

Where golden flash and silver gleam

Have meanings of their own;

While, high and low, and all about,

Your motions, glittering Elves!

Ye weave, no danger from without,

And peace among yourselves.
Type of a sunny human breast

Is your transparent cell;

Where Fear is but a transient guest,

No sullen Humours dwell;

Where, sensitive of every ray

That smites this tiny sea,

Your scaly panoplies repay

The loan with usury.
How beautiful! Yet none knows why

This ever-graceful change,

Renewed, renewed incessantly

Within your quiet range.

Is it that ye with conscious skill

For mutual pleasure glide;

And sometimes, not without your will,

Are dwarfed, or magnified?
Fays, Genii of gigantic size!

And now, in twilight dim,

Clustering like constellated eyes,

In wings of Cherubim,

When the fierce orbs abate their glare;

Whate’er your forms express,

Whate’er ye seem, whate’er ye are

All leads to gentleness.
Cold though your nature be, ’tis pure,

Your birthright is a fence

From all that haughtier kinds endure

Through tyranny of sense.

Ah! not alone by colours bright

Are Ye to heaven allied,

When, like essential Forms of light,

Ye mingle, or divide.
For day-dreams soft as e’er beguiled

Day-thoughts while limbs repose;

For moonlight fascinations mild,

Your gift, ere shutters close

Accept, mute Captives! thanks and praise;

And may this tribute prove

That gentle admirations raise

Delight resembling love.

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