Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/177

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Curve into scorn: then all grow calm again,— Is it not like those lands, where, I have read, Beneath an outward show of fairest flowers The soil has veins of subterranean flame, Whose fiery sparkles start to sudden life When we least dream of them. I'd rather breathe One moment's breath of morning on the hills, Than all the Indian woods that ever burnt On silver censers; and would rather see One leaf fall from the bough which misses not Its loss, than look upon the purple sweep Of these rich tapestries. Ah, 'tis his voice!

Health and long happiness, my friends!