When I have fears that I may cease to be
        Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain,
    Before high-piled books, in charactery,
        Hold like rich garners the full ripen’d grain;
    When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face,
        Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
    And think that I may never live to trace
        Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
    And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
        That I shall never look upon thee more,
    Never have relish in the faery power
        Of unreflecting love;—then on the shore
    Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
    Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

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