Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1827.pdf/26

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me love her! she has past Into my inmost heart— A dweller on the hallowed ground Of its least worldly part; Where feelings and where memories dwell Like hidden music in the shell.

She was so like the forms that float; On twilight's hour to me, Making of cloud-born shapes and thoughts A dear reality: As much a thing of light and air As ever poet's visions were.

I left smoke, vanities, and cares, Just far enough behind, To dream of fairies 'neath the moon, Of voices on the wind; And every fantasy of mine Was truth in that sweet face of thine.

Her cheek was very very pale, Yet it was still more fair; Lost were one half its loveliness, Had the red rose been there: But now that sad and touching grace Made her's seem like an angel's face.

The spring, with all its breath and bloom, Hath not so dear a flower, As the white lily's languid head Drooping beneath the shower; And health hath ever waken'd less Of deep and anxious tenderness.