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Love is a thing of frail and delicate growth; Soon checked, soon fostered; feeble, and yet strong: It will endure much, suffer long, and bear What would weigh down an angel's wing to earth, And yet mount heavenward; but not the less It dieth of a word, a look, a thought; And when it dies, it dies without a sign To tell how fair it was in happier hours: It leaves behind reproaches and regrets, And bitterness within affection's well, For which there is no healing.

rose from her seat, and unfastened the riband, less black than the hair that it bound. "So, my poor Constance," said she, "I am not permitted even this memorial of her; and even Ethel I cannot serve. Of what avail," and her eyes wandered mechanically round, "is all the luxury by which I am