Hark!…
what booming
Faints on the high-strung ear?
Through the damp woods (so dark
No flowers are blooming)
I hear, I hear
The twang of harps, the leap
Of hairy feet, and know the revel’s ripe,
While, like a coral stripe,
The lizard cool doth creep,
Monster, but monarch there, up the pale Indian Pipe.

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