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THE LAKE OF GENEVA.
AY glimmered, and to Italy I went;
Thy gates, Geneva, swinging heavily,
Thy gates so slow to open, swift to shut;
As on that Sabbath-eve to young Rousseau,
When in his anguish but a step too late
He sate him down and wept - wept till the morning;
Then rose to go
- a wanderer thro' the world.
Day glimmered and I went, a gentle breeze
Ruffling the waters of the Leman lake;
And soon a passage-boat came sweeping by,
Laden with farmers-wives and fruits and flowers,
And many a chanticleer and partlet caged
For Vevay's market-place — a motley group
Seen thro' the silvery haze. But soon 'twas gone.
The shifting sail flapped idly for an instant,
Then bore them off.
I am not one of those
So dead to all things in this visible world,
So wondrously profound as to move on