XXXII


       A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swift—
       A Love in desolation mask’d—a Power
       Girt round with weakness—it can scarce uplift
       The weight of the superincumbent hour;
       It is a dying lamp, a falling shower,
       A breaking billow; even whilst we speak
       Is it not broken? On the withering flower
       The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek
The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break.

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