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 HE pure, grave eyes will never smile again, Will never change in love, or joy, or pain ; The tender mouth is closely folded now, The quiet hair lies lightly on his brow. He used to toss it back — the wavy hair, And I would envy it for lying there, And press my yearning fingers there instead, — And now, my love is dead, my love is dead ! How strange it feels — the very scent of flowers Is just the same as when we called them ours The little rose-bud pressed into his hand Fades not so soon as when he used to stand And say that I should have it for a kiss, And watch my longing ripen into bliss, The while he stooped to me his kingly head, — And now, my love is dead, my love is dead !