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Ivied maidens, strike together: Magic lutes are these, whose noise Our fingers gather, Threaded thrice with golden strings From Cupid's bow; And the sounds of its sweet voice Not air, but little busy things, Pinioned with the lightest feather Of his wings, Rising up at every blow Round the chords, like flies from roses Zephyr-touched; so these light minions Hover round, then shut their pinions, And drop into the air, that closes Where music's sweetest sweet reposes. Back Home |