TO THE MUSE. HITHER? Albeit I follow fast, In all life's circuit I but find, Not where thou art, but where thou wast, I find the rock where thou didst rest, Like branches after birds new-flown; Where thou hast dipt thy finger-tips; Just, just beyond, forever burn Upon thy shade I plant my foot, And through my frame strange raptures shoot; All of thee but thyself I grasp; I seem to fold thy luring shape, And vague air to my bosom clasp, One mask and then another drops, Sometimes with flooded ear I list, Through mountains, forests, open downs, The factory-wheels in cadence hum, |