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 And rested there the lips, so warm and loving, That, they could speak, one might be fain to guess: Only they had been much too bright, if moving, To stay by their own will, all motionless. One outstretch'd hand its marble seal 'gan press On roses which look'd fading; while the eyes, Uplifted in a calm, proud loveliness, Seem'd busy with their flow'ry destinies, Drawing, for ladye's heart, some moral quaint and wise.

She perish'd like her roses. I did look On her, as she did look on them—to sigh! Alas, alas! that the fair-written book Of her sweet face, should be in death laid by, As any blotted scroll! Its cruelty Poison'd a heart most gentle-pulsed of all, And turn'd it unto song, therein to die: For grief's stern tension maketh musical, Unless the strain'd string break or ere the music fall.