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All my heart-creed to gainsay, Own my idol gilded clay, And yet pine to dream again What I know is worse than vain. Ay, I did love, and how well, Let thine own fond weakness tell: Still upon the soften'd mood Of my twilight solitude, Still upon my midnight tear, Rises image all too dear; Dark and starry eyes, whose light Make the glory of the night; Brow like ocean's morning foam, For each noble thought a home. Well such temple's fair outline Seem'd the spirit's fitting shrine.