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Earth's cares may not such calm allow, Man's toil is written on his brow: But here the face was passionless, The holy peace of happiness, With that grave pity spirits feel In watching over human weal; An awful beauty round him shone But for the good to look upon. Close by his side a maiden rode, Like spray her white robe round her flow'd; No rainbow hues about her clung, Such as the other maidens flung; And her hair hath no summer crown, But its long tresses floating down Are like a veil of gold which cast A sunshine to each wave that past.