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That so much beauty needs must have a soul, And that such form as tints the gazer's dream, Held higher spirit than the common clod On which we tread. Yet while we muse, a blight Steals o'er thee, and thy shrinking bosom shows The mournful symptoms of a wan disease.— I will not stay to see thy beauty fade. Still must I bear away within my heart Thy lesson of our own mortality; The fearful withering of each blossomed bough On which we lean, of every bud we fain Would hide within our bosoms from the touch Of the destroyer. So instruct us, Lord! Thou Father of the sunbeam and the soul, Even by the simple sermon of a flower, To cling to Thee.