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Lo! in the painted oriel of the west,
Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines,
Like a fair lady at her casement, shines
The evening star, the star of love and rest !
And then anon she doth herself divest
Of all her radiant garments, and reclines
Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines,
With slumber and soft dreams of love oppress’d.
O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus !
My morning and my evening star of love!
My best and gentlest lady! even thus
As that fair planet in the sky above,
Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night,
And from thy darkened window fades the light.


Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,
With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,
Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,
And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain !
Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,
Upon thy bridge of gold; - thy royal hand
Outstretch'd with benedictions o'er the land,
Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain.

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