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young and the lovely are gathered: Who shall talk of our wearisome life, And dwell upon weeds and on weeping— The struggle, the sorrow, the strife? The hours of our being are coloured, And many are coloured with rose; Though on some be a sign and a shadow, I list not to speak now of those.

Thro' the crimson blind flushes the splendour Of lamps, like large pearls which some fay