Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/188

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But thou art of that gentler growth, Which asks some loving eye, To keep it in sweet guardianship, Or it must droop and die; Requiring equal love and care, Even more delicate than fair.

I cannot paint to thee the charm Which thou hast wrought on me; Thy laugh, so like the wild bird's song In the first bloom-touch'd tree. You spoke of lovely Italy, And of its thousand flowers; Your lips had caught the music breath Amid its summer bow'rs.