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Was she of spirit race, or was she one Of Earth's least earthly daughters, one to whom A gift of soul and loveliness is given, Only to make men wretched?

is an antique gem, on which her brow Retains its graven beauty even now. Her hair is braided, but one curl behind Floats as enamour'd of the summer wind; The rest is simple. Is she not too fair Even to think of maiden's sweetest care? The mouth and brow are contrasts. One so fraught With pride, the melancholy pride of thought Conscious of power, and yet forced to know How little way such power as that can go; Regretting, while too proud of the fine mind, Which raises but to part it from its kind: But the sweet mouth had nothing of all this; It was a mouth the rose had leaned to kiss, For her young sister, telling, now though mute, How soft an echo it was to the lute.