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And can it be a form like thine Has braved the stormy Appennine?

I'm standing now with one white rose Where silver waters glide: I've flung that white rose on the stream,— How light it breasts the tide! The clear waves seem as if they love So beautiful a thing; And fondly to the scented leaves The laughing sunbeams cling. A summer voyage—fairy freight;— And such, sweet lady, be thy fate!