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 That now is empty. (O my empty life!) That day—that day you picked the first sweet-pеа, — And brought it in to show me! I recall With terrible distinctness how the smelI Of your cool gardens drifted in with you. I know, you held it up for me to see And lushed because I looked not at the flower, But at your face; and when behind my look You saw such unmistakable intent You laughed and brushed your flower against my lips. (You were the fairest thing God ever made, I think.) And then your hands above my heart Drew down its stem into a fastening, And while your head was bent I kissed your hair.