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And he is bartering his heart For that in which it hath no part. There’s many an ill that clings to love; But this is one all else above;— For love to bow before the name Of this world’s treasure: shame! oh, shame! Love, be thy wings as light as those That waft the zephyr from the rose,— This may be pardoned—something rare In loveliness has been thy snare! But how, fair Love, canst thou become A thing of mines—a sordid gnome? And she whom left—she stood A cold white statue; as the blood Had, when in vain her last wild prayer, Flown to her heart, and frozen there.