  'O thy flamed cheek, Those locks with weeping wet, Eyes that, forlorn and meek, On mine are set. 'Poor hands, poor feeble wings, Folded, a-droop, O sad! See, 'tis my heart that sings To make thee glad. 'My mouth breathes love, thou dear. All that I am and know Is thine. My breast—draw near: Be grieved not so!'
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