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And lemon trees grew round, as pale As never yet to them the gale Had brought a message from the sun To say their summer task was done. It was a very solitude For love in its despairing mood, With just enough of breath and bloom, With just enough of calm and gloom, To suit a heart where love has wrought His wasting work, with saddest thought; Where all its sickly fantasies May call up suiting images: With flowers like hopes that spring and fade As only for a mockery made, And shadows of the boughs that fall Like sorrow drooping over all.