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And many a gentle word was said Above their morning dye,— How that the rose had touch'd thy cheek, The violet thine eye.

Methinks, if but for memory, I should have kept these flowers; Ah! all too lightly does thy heart Dwell upon vanish'd hours.

Already has thine eager hand Stripp'd yonder rose-hung bough; The wreath that bound thy raven curls Thy feet are on it now.