Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/61

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I owned not to myself I loved,— No word of love breathed; But I lived in a magic ring, Of every pleasant flower wreathed. A bright blue was on the sky, A sweeter breath in music’s sigh; The orange shrubs all seemed to bear Fruit more rich, and buds more fair. There was a glory on the noon, A beauty in the crescent moon, A lulling stillness in the night, A feeling in the pale starlight. There was a charmed note on the wind, A spell in Poetry’s deep store— Heart-uttered words, passionate thoughts, Which I had never marked before.