Poetry Platform

Walter Savage Landor

Thou Hast Not Raised

Thou hast not rais'd, Ianthe, such desire In any breast as thou hast rais'd in mine. No wandering meteor now, no marshy fire, Leads on my steps, but lofty, but divine: And, if thou chillest me, as chill thou dost When I approach too near, too boldly gaze, So chills the blushing morn, so chills the host Of vernal stars, with light more chaste than day's.

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