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Far above the hollow

Tempest, and its moan,

Singeth bright Apollo

In his golden zone,—

Cloud doth never shade him,

Nor a storm invade him,

On his joyous throne.

So when I behold me

In an orb as bright,

How thy soul doth fold me

In its throne of light!

Sorrow never paineth,

Nor a care attaineth

To that blessed height.