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Nought rests of what once was so fair,
But thy glossy curls of auburn hair;
The golden braids seem too bright to twine
O'er a brow so shaded by sadness as thine.
Love has been to thee as the treacherous gale,
Opening the rose's mossy veil;
Sweetly it came, but its breath left there
The canker, Remorse, and the blight, Despair!
