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It has a wasted bloom, a burning heart; It has dwelt too much in the open day, And so have I; and both must droop and die! I did not choose my gift:—too soon my heart, Watch-like, had pointed to a later hour Than time had reach'd: and as my years pass'd on, Shadows and floating visions grew to thoughts, And thoughts found words, the passionate words of song, And all to me was poetry. The face, Whose radiance glided past me in the dance, Awoke a thousand fantasies to make Some history of her passing smile or sigh. The flowers were full of song:—upon the rose I read the crimson annals of true love; The violet flung me back on old romance;