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Or, I should say, my sorrow:—I have borne So much unkindness, felt so lone, so lorn, I could but weep, and tears may not redress, They only fill the cup of bitterness)— Wearied of this, upon what eager wings My spirit turns to thee, and bird-like flings Its best, its breath, its spring, and song o'er thee, My lute's enchanted world, fair Italie. To me thou art a vision half divine, Of myriad flowers lit up with summer shine: The passionate rose, the violet's Tyrian dye, The wild bee loves them not more tenderly; Of vineyards like Aladdin's gem set hall, Fountains like fairy ones with music's fall; Of sorrows, too; for e'en on this bright soil Grief has its shadow, and care has its coil,