Page:The Vow of the Peacock.pdf/54

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A flower which no rude wind hath blown, O'er which no shadow falls. So gradual has the maiden sprung To womanhood's sweet prime; So soft the shadow round her flung By that enchanted time, That still she seems the child to be   Who wandered at his side, Beneath the summer's greenwood tree And by the sea's blue tide; And heaping treasure for her bower Of singing shell and breathing flower. But on her brow there is a shade Scarcely for early April made: But 'tis the heart that marks the hour; And hers, in passion and in power,