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Were passionately eloquent, all filled With earth's most glorious feelings. And his father, A warrior and a hunter, one whose grasp Was ever on the bridle or the brand, Had no pride in a boy whose joy it was To sit for hours by a fountain side Listening its low and melancholy song. Or wander through the gardens silently, As if with leaves and flowers alone he held Aught of companionship. In his first years They sent him to a convent, for they said Its solitude would suit with Guido's mood. And there he dwelt, while treasuring those rich thoughts That are the food on which young genius lives. He rose to watch the sunlight over Rome Break from its purple shadows, making glad