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Italian peasants treasure up, O'erflowings of the poet's cup, Suited to those whose earth and sky, Temples and groves, are poetry. And then at eve, her raven hair Braided upon a brow as fair As are the snowy chestnut flowers When blooming in the first spring hours, She sat beneath the old beech tree, Her mandolin upon her knee. But Blanche was gone, and guilt and shame Made harsh the music of her name. —But he had yet another child,— The Father Blanche could leave,—who smiled Gently and cheerfully away The cloud that on his spirit lay.