VII. THE AZALEA.
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here, where the sun shines firstAgainst our room,She train'd the gold Azalea, whose perfumeShe, Spring-like, from her breathing grace dispersed.Last night the delicate crests of saffron bloom,For this their dainty likeness watch'd and nurst,Were just at point to burst.At dawn I dream'd, O God, that she was dead,And groan'd aloud upon my wretched bed,And waked, ah, God, and did not waken her,But lay, with eyes still closed,Perfectly bless'd in the delicious sphereBy which I knew so well that she was near,My heart to speechless thankfulness composed.Till 'gan to stirA dizzy somewhat in my troubled head--It was the azalea's breath, and she was dead!The warm night had the lingering buds disclosed,And I had fall'n asleep with to my breastA chance-found letter press'dIn which she said,'So, till to-morrow eve, my Own, adieu!Parting's well-paid with soon again to meet,Soon in your arms to feel so small and sweet,Sweet to myself that am so sweet to you!'
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