Speed ye, Warm Hours, along th'appointed path,
Speed, though ye bring but pain, slow pain to me;
I will not much bemoan your heavy wrath,
So ye will make my lady glad and free.
What is't that I must here confinèd be,
If she may roam the summer's sweets among,
See the full-cupped flower, the laden tree,
Hear from deep groves the thousand-voicèd song?
Sometimes in that still chamber will she sit
Trim ranged with books, and cool with dusky blinds,
That keep the moon out, there, as seemèd fit,
To sing, or play, or read--what sweet hope finds
Way to my heart? perchance some verse of mine--
Oh happy! speed on, ye hours divine.Arthur Henry Hallam
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