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Normale Version: To Wordsworth: And those whose lot may never be to meet
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And those whose lot may never be to meet
Kin souls confined in bodies sever'd far,
As if thy Genius were a potent star,
Ruling their life at solemn hours and sweet

Of secret sympathy, do they not greet
Each other kindly, when the deep full line
Hath ravish'd both - high as the haunt divine
And presence of celestial Paraclete?

Three thousand years have pass'd since Homer spake,
And many thousand hearts have bless'd his name,
And yet I love them all for Homer's sake,

Child, woman, man, that e'er have felt his flame;
And thine, great Poet, is like power to bind
In love far distant ages of mankind.


April 24 - 27, 1842