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  O happy soul, forget thy self!
  This that has haunted all the past,
  That conjured disappointments fast,
  That never could let well alone;
  That, climbing to achievement's throne,
  Slipped on the last step; this that wove
  Dissatisfaction's clinging net,
  And ran through life like squandered pelf:--
  This that till now has been thy self
  Forget, O happy soul, forget.

  If ever thou didst aught commence,--
  Set'st forth in springtide woods to rove,--
  Or, when the sun in July throve,
  Didst plunge into calm bay of ocean
  With fine felicity in motion,--
  Or, having climbed some high hill's brow,
  Thy toil behind thee like the night,
  Stoodst in the chill dawn's air intense;--
  Commence thus now, thus recommence:

  Take to the future as to light.
  Not as a bather on the shore
  Strips of his clothes, glad soul, strip thou:
  He throws them off, but folds them now;
  Although he for the billows yearns,
  To weight them down with stones he turns;
  To mark the spot he scans the shore;
  Of his return he thinks before.
  Do thou forget

  All that, until this joy franchised thee,
  Tainted thee, stained thee, or disguised thee;
  For gladness, henceforth without let,
  Be thou a body, naked, fair;
  And be thy kingdom all the air
  Which the noon fills with light;
  And be thine actions every one,
  Like to a dawn or set of sun,
  Robed in an ample glory's peace;
  Since thou hast tasted this great glee
  Whose virtue prophesies in thee
  That wrong is wholly doomed, is doomed and bound to cease.

© Thomas Sturge Moore