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my last song was said for thee, Thy golden hair swept, long and free, Around thee; and a dove-like tone Was on thy voice—or Nature's own: And every phrase and word of thine Went out in lispings infantine! Thy small steps faltering round our hearth— Thine een out-peering in their mirth— Blue een! that, like thine heart, seem'd given To be, for ever, full of heaven! Wert thou, in sooth, made up of glee, When my last song was said for thee?