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the tress of hair.
Unto my aching, frenzied sight!
Each tear I would repress:
But vain; for woman's grief breaks forth
In gushing tenderness.

A fragile plant to me was given;
I nurtured from its birth,
And watched to see my flower expand—
It blooms, but not on earth.

I found it was not given to me—
To me 't was only lent;
And now, with heavenly choirs above,
My radiant flower is blent.

Be still, be still, each murmuring thought;
Dost hear that music's flow?
More sweetly stealing o'er my soul
Than touch of lute-chords low.

It is my darling's voice I hear;
It thrills with rapture wild:
Fain would I break these bonds of clay,
To clasp my angel child.