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But when they met again he mark'd her hair Where it had wreath'd,—the rosebud was not there. They pass'd and repass'd: he, cold, silently, As was his wont; but she, with flashing eye, And blush lit up to crimson, seem'd to wear More than accustom'd gladness in her air. Ah! the heart overacts its part; its mirth, Like light, will all too often take its birth Mid darkness and decay; those smiles that press, Like the gay crowd round, are not happiness: For peace broods quiet on her dovelike wings, And this false gaiety a radiance flings, Dazzling but hiding not; and some who dwelt Upon her meteor beauty, sadness felt; Its very brilliance spoke the fever'd breast; Thus glitter not the waters when at rest.