The first fair life that
breaks from Nature's swoon,
Mounts in a line of rapture
to the skies;
Absorbed in its own happy
urge it lives,
Sufficient to itself, yet
turned to all.
It has no seen communion
with its world,
No open converse with
surrounding things.
There is a oneness native
and occult
That needs no instruments
and erects no form;
All contacts it assumes
into its trance,
Laugh-tossed consents to
the wind's kiss and takes
Transmutingly the shocks of
sun and breeze:
A blissful yearning riots
in its leaves,
A magic passion trembles in
its blooms,
Its boughs aspire in hushed
felicity.
(Book
Four, Canto One)
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