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   Leagues of blue ocean are between us spread;
   And I cannot behold thee, save in dreams!
   I cannot hear the music round thee shed,
   I do not see the light that from thee gleams.
   Fairest and best! 'mid summer joys, ah, say,
   Dost thou e'er think of one, who thinks of thee---
   Th' Atlantic-wanderer---who, day by day,
   Looks for thy image in the deep, deep sea?
   Long months, and years perchance, may pass away,
   Ere he shall gaze upon thy face again;
   He cannot know what rocks and quicksands lay
   Before him, on the Future's shipless main;
   But, thanked be Memory! there are treasures still,
Which the triumphant mind holds subject to its will.