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Its glorious witness; hence the poet's page Wakens its haunting sympathy of pain; And hence the painter with a touch creates Feelings imperishable. 'Twas from that hour took his inspiration: love Made him the sculptor of all loveliness; The overflowing of a soul imbued By most ideal grace, the memory Which lingers round first passion's sepulchre. —Why do I say first love?—there is no second. Who asks in the same year a second growth Of spring leaves from the tree, corn from the field?— They are exhausted. Thus 'tis with the heart:— 'Tis not so rich in feeling or in hope To bear that one be crush'd, the other faded,