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But there are some too long, too well conceal'd, Too deeply felt,—that are but once reveal'd: Like the withdrawing of the mortal dart, And then the life-blood follows from the heart; Sorrow, before unspoken by a sigh, But which, once spoken, only hath to die.— Young, very young, the lady was, who now Bow'd on her slender hand her weary brow: Not beautiful, save when the eager thought In the soft eyes a sudden beauty wrought: Not beautiful, save when the cheek's warm blush Grew eloquent with momentary flush Of feeling, that made beauty, not to last, And scarcely caught, so quickly is it past. —Alas! she knew it well; too early thrown Mid a cold world, the unloved and the lone,