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Its dower is but a humble dower, And I who call upon its aid, My power is but a woman's power, Of softness and of sadness made. In all its changes my own heart Must give the colour, have its part. If that I know myself what keys Yield to my hand their sympathies, I should say it is those whose tone Is woman's love and sorrow's own; Such notes as float upon the gale, When twilight, tender nurse and pale, Brings soothing airs and silver dew The panting roses to renew; Feelings whose truth is all their worth, Thoughts which have had their pensive birth