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I sought the gallery: I was wont To pass the noontide there, and trace Some Statue’s shape of loveliness— Some Saint, or Nymph, or Muse’s face. There in my rapture I could throw My pencil and its hues aside, And, as the vision past me, pour My song of passion, joy, and pride. And he was there,— there! How soon the morning past away, With finding beauties in each thing Neither had seen before that day! Spirit of Love! soon thy rose-plumes wear The weight and the sully of canker and care: Falsehood is round thee; Hope leads thee on, Till every hue from thy pinion is gone.