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" down thy head, thou born of clay,—    Bow down thy head to me," A drooping Lily seemed to say. As sank the footsteps of the day, Upon the grassy lea.

Its dewy lips to mine I prest, And drank its stifled sigh, A tear-drop lay within its breast,— "Hast thou a woe to be confess'd,    Thou favorite of the sky?"

"Two buds beside my heart awoke.    More pure than opening day,— But lo! a hand with sudden stroke From my embrace those idols broke,     And bore them hence away."