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Such store of wealth in its own fresh wild pulse; And it is Love that works the mine, and brings Its treasure to the light. I did love once,— Loved as youth—woman—Genius loves; though now My heart is chilled and seared, and taught to wear That falsest of false things—a mask of smiles; Yet every pulse throbs at the memory Of that which has been! Love is like the glass, That throws its own rich colour over all, And makes all beautiful. The morning looks Its very loveliest, when the fresh air Has tinged the cheek we love with its glad red; And the hot noon flits by most rapidly, When dearest eyes gaze with us on the page Bearing the poet's words of love:—and then