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There are vases,—the flowers within them are breathing Sighs almost as sweet as the lips that are near; Light feet are glancing, white arms are wreathing,— O temple of pleasure! thou surely art here.

I gazed on the scene; 'twas the dream of a minute; But it seem'd to me even as fairy land fair: 'Twas the cup's bright inside; and on glancing within it, What but the dregs and the darkness were there?

—False wave of the desert, thou art less beguiling Than false beauty over the lighted hall shed: What but the smiles that have practised their smiling, Or honey words measured, and reckon'd as said?