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I the power
 * To Midas given of old

To touch a flower,
 * And leave the petals gold,

I then might touch thy face,
 * Delightful Maid,

And leave a metal grace,
 * A graven head.

Thus would I slay—
 * Ah, desperate device!

The vital day
 * That trembles in thine eyes,

And let the red lips close
 * That sang so well,

And drive away the rose,
 * To leave a shell.