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Nought rests of what once was so fair, But thy glossy curls of auburn hair; The golden braids seem too bright to twine O'er a brow so shaded by sadness as thine.

Love has been to thee as the treacherous gale, Opening the rose's mossy veil; Sweetly it came, but its breath left there The canker, Remorse, and the blight, Despair!