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Together wept they o'er the funeral stone, His the sole heart she had to lean upon. Now months had pass'd away, and he was come To bring his beautiful, his dear one home. Her beauty was like morning's, breathing, bright, Eyes glittering first with tears, and then with light, And blue, too glad to be the violet's blue, But that which hangs upon it, lucid dew,— Its first clear moment, ere the sun has burst The azure radiance which it kindled first;— A cheek of thousand blushes; golden hair, As if the summer sunshine made it fair; A voice of music, and such touching smile, sigh'd, "Well might they beguile!" —Love, what a mystery thou art!—how strange Thy constancy, yet still more so thy change!