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Ah, had nursed my favourite flowers. Nearer I came, I heard familiar sounds— They are the heart's best music; saw the blaze Through the wide windows of the dear old hall. One moment more, my eager footsteps stood Within my father's home, beside his hearth. —Three times those early violets had fill'd Their urns with April dew, when the changed cheek Of wore signs of young decay. The rose was too inconstant, and the light Too clear in those blue eyes; but southern skies Might nurse a flower too delicate to bear The winds of March, unless in Italy. I need not tell thee how the soothing air Brought tranquil bloom that fed not on itself To 's sweet face; but soon again