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Has swelled with her breath till their lustre, If softer, is as bright as of day. Beneath the verandah are flowers— Camellias like ivory wrought With the grace of a young Grecian sculptor, Who traced what some Oread brought;

The harp to the flute is replying— 'Tis the song of a far-distant land; But never, in vineyard or valley, Assembled a lovelier band. Come thou, with thy glad golden ringlets, Like rain which is lit by the sun— With eyes, the bright spirit's bright mirrors— Whose cheek and the rose-bud are one.