What dawn-pulse at the heart of heaven, or last Incarnate flower of culminating day,— What marshalled marvels on the skirts of May, Or song full-quired, sweet June`s encomiast; What glory of change by Nature`s hand amass`d Can vie with all those moods of varying grace Which o`er one loveliest woman`s form and face Within this hour, within this room, have pass`d? Love`s very vesture and elect disguise Was each fine movement,—wonder new-begot Of lily or swan or swan-stemmed galiot; Joy to his sight who now the sadlier sighs, Parted again; and sorrow yet for eyes Unborn, that read these words and saw her not.SourceThe script ran 0.004 seconds.
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