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The green leaves, and decayed the stem, yet still The spirit of fragrance lingers, loath to leave Its dear abode. Just so love haunts the heart, Though withered, and to be revived no more. Oh, nothing has the memory of love! It was a summer twilight; crimson lights Played o'er the bridal bowers of the west, And in the grey horizon the white moon Was faintly visible, just where the sky Met the green rolling of the shadowy sea. Upon a little hill, whose broken ridge Was covered with the golden furze, and heath Gay with its small pink blossoms, in a shade Formed of thick hazels and the graceful sweep Of the ash-boughs, an old beach-trunk the seat, With a sweet canopy of honeysuckle