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I heard the maiden's twilight song, It told me all her tale.

I saw an urn, and round it hung An April diadem Of flowers, telling they mourned one Faded and fair like them.

I turned to tales of other days, They spoke of breath and bloom; And proud hearts that were bow'd by Love Into an early tomb.

I heard of every suffering That on this earth can be: How can they call a sleeping child A likeness, Love, of thee?