Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/160

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, oh! where's the chain to fling, One that will bind 's wing, One that will have longer power Than the April sun or shower? Form it not of Eastern gold, All too weighty it to hold; Form it neither all of bloom, Never does Love find a tomb Sudden, soon, as when he meets Death amid unchanging sweets: But if you would fling a chain, And not fling it all in vain, Like a fairy form a spell Of all that is changeable, Take the purple tints that deck, Meteor-like, the peacock's neck;