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White Land within the West,
Upon the breast
Of some divine and windless sea:
One of thy musing ghosts make me,
Glad and at rest.

White leaves of poplar there
Move to an air,
Gracious, and musical, and kind:
Under those leaves, let me too find
The cure of care.

But chiefly for their sake,
Whom thou didst take;
Lost to me in thine heart, White Land!
Soon bid me sleep, soon hand in hand
With them to wake.