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Perhaps it was her orphan'd state, So young, so fair, so desolate,— Somewhat of likeness in their fate Made heart for her confess Its hidden depths of tenderness. Neglected both; and those that pine In love's despair and hope's decline, Can love the most when some sweet spell Breaks the seal on affection's well, And bids its waters flow like light Returning to the darken'd sight. And while his fallen fortunes taught proud solitude of thought, His spirit's cold, stern haughtiness In her was gentle mournfulness. The cold north wind which bows to earth The lightness of the willow's birth