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A cheek, whose crimson hues seemed caught From the first tint by April brought To the peach-bud; and clouds of curl Over a brow of blue-veined pearl, Falling like sunlight, just one shade Of chesnut on its golden braid. Is she not all too fair to weep? Those young eyes should be closed in sleep, Dreaming those dreams the moonlight brings, When the dew falls and the nightingale sings: Dreams of a word, of a look, of a sigh, Till the cheek burns and the heart beats high. But sits and weeps in her bower, Pale as the gleam on the white orange flower, And counting the wearying moments o'er For his return, who returns no more!