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And thou, too, fair Ophelia! flowers are here, That well might win thy footstep to the spot— Pale cowslips, meet for maiden's early bier, And pansies for sad thoughts, —but needed not! Come with thy wreaths, and all the love and light In that wild eye still tremulously bright.

And Juliet, vision of the south! enshrining All gifts that unto its rich heaven belong; The glow, the sweetness, in its rose combining, The soul its nightingales pour forth in song! Thou, making death deep joy!—but couldst thou die? No!—thy young love hath immortality!

From earth's bright faces fades the light of morn, From earth's glad voices drops the joyous tone;