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The summer evenings. Well she knew her doom, And sought to linger with such loveliness: Surely it soothed her passage to the grave. One gazed upon her, till his very life Was dedicate to that idolatry With which young Love makes offering of itself. In the vast world he only saw her face. The morning blush was lighted up by hope,— The hope of meeting her; the noontide hours Were counted for her sake; in the soft wind, When it had pass'd o'er early flowers, he caught The odour of her sigh; upon the rose He only saw the colour of her cheek. He watch'd the midnight stars until they wore Her beauty's likeness—love's astrology.