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asked, oh! let me hear That dearest voice again, Altho', lute-like, its notes had lost Their old accustomed strain.

I did not ask that words of love Upon thy lips should be; I did not ask that thou shouldst breathe Of other days to me;

I did not say, give me the rose, Altho' it was so dear, I only prayed to live within Its perfum'd atmosphere.

We met; what did that meeting teach But what I long have known— That thou wert changed, yet that my heart Was utterly thine own.