A spring there is, whose silver waters show Clear as a glass the shining sands below: A flowering lotos spreads its arms above, Shades all the banks, and seems itself a grove.
The lotos bowed above the tide and dreamed.
The lotos blooms below the barren peak: The lotos blooms by every winding creek: All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone, Round and round the spicy downs the yellow lotos-dust is blown.
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