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A cheek which had the crimson hue Upon the sun-touched nectarine; A lip of perfume and of dew; A brow like twilight’s darkened line. I strove to catch each charm that long Has lived,—thanks to her lover’s song! Each grace he numbered one by one, That shone in her of Avignon. I ever thought that poet’s fate Utterly lone and desolate. It is the spirit’s bitterest pain To love, to be beloved again; And yet between a gulf which ever The hearts that burn to meet must sever And he was vowed to one sweet star, Bright yet to him, but bright afar.