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The pure, the spiritual, the clear, Whose light is of another sphere. It was an eve when June was calling The red rose to its summer state, When dew-like tears around are falling— Such tears as upon pity wait. The woods obscured the crimson west, Which yet shone through the shadowy screen Like a bright sea in its unrest, With gold amid the kindling green. But softer lights and colours fall Around the olive-sheltered hall, Which, opening to a garden, made Its own, just slightly broken, shade. Beneath a marble terrace spread, Veined with the sunset's flitting red.