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For her young sister, telling, now though mute, How soft an echo it was to the lute. The one spoke genius, in its high revealing; The other smiled a woman's gentle feeling. It was a lovely face: the Greek outline Flowing, yet delicate and feminine; The glorious lightning of the kindled eye, Raised, as it communed with its native sky. A lovely face, the spirit's fitting shrine; The one almost, the other quite divine.

hand is on the lyre, which never more With its sweet commerce, like a bosom friend, Will share the deeper thoughts which I could trust Only to music and to solitude. It is the very grove, the olive grove, Where first I laid my laurel crown aside, And bathed my fever'd brow in the cold stream; As if that I could wash away the fire