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From the lillies' bells she dash'd not the spray, For her feet were as light and as white as they. Sudden upon her arm there shone A gem with the hues of an Indian stone, And she knew the insect bird whose wing Is sacred to and to spring; But scarce had her touch its captive prest Ere another prisoner was on her breast, And the Zephyr sought his prize again,— "No," said the Nymph, thy search is vain: And her golden hair from its braided yoke Burst like the banner of hope as she spoke, "And instead, fair boy, thou shalt moralize Over the pleasure that from thee flies; Then it is pleasure,—for we possess But in the search, not in the success."