She smiled gently on my sorrow,
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As a stem might on its receding shade,
So that her gazing eye approves tomorrow,
The beauty of dusk on her cheeck made.
The mist sleeves every morning
The valleys and hills with doleful dew,
For her brow it has left without returning,
Yet never in sorrow depart whenever it flew.
The breath that exhales with every motion,-
Which claims and unbinds every passion,-
Calls its child the foaming ocean,
And no whispered word goes without crashing.
Convey she all with innocent brushing
With curled hair, or pressing hand,
That I'm not apt but turn to blushing,
And turn to dreaming from a single strand.