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Rh

Or does this explain it?

And yet

If all the world from virtue draws
 * A blessing and a gain,

Why should all virtue in my maid,
 * My fawn-eyed maiden, pain?

Each guards his home, they say; Yet in my heart you stay, Burning your home alway, Sweet, heartless one!

That these—her bosom's youthful pride, Her curling hair, her sinuous side, Her blood-red lip, her waist so small— Should hurt me, is not strange at all: But that her cheeks so clear, so bright, Should torture me, is far from right.

Her bosom, like an elephant's brow, Swells, saffron-scented. How, ah, how