I like that you are crazy not with me,
I like that I'm not with you crazy, either,
That ne'er the heavy planet's globe will be
Drifting away under our feet, quite easy. ...
Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old,
Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree;
The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold,
And wolves still dread Diana roaming free
In secret woodland with her company.
'Tis thought the peasants' hovels know her rite
When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,
And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey,
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