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Yes, thou art very young, and youth, Like light, should round thee fling The sunshine thrown round morning's hour, The gladness given to spring: And yet upon thy brow is wrought The darkness of that deeper thought, Which future time should bring. What can have traced that shadowy line Upon a brow so young as thine?

'Tis written in thy large dark eyes, Fill'd with unbidden tears; The passionate paleness on thy cheek, Belying thy few years. A child, yet not the less thou art One of the gifted hand and heart,