I. HERSELF
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o be a sweetness more desired than Spring;A bodily beauty more acceptableThan the wild rose-tree's arch that crowns the fell;To be an essence more environingThan wine's drained juice; a music ravishingMore than the passionate pulse of Philomel;--To be all this 'neath one soft bosom's swellThat is the flower of life:--how strange a thing! How strange a thing to be what Man can knowBut as a sacred secret! Heaven's own screenHides her soul's purest depth and loveliest glow;Closely withheld, as all things most unseen,--The wave-bowered pearl, the heart-shaped seal of greenThat flecks the snowdrop underneath the snow.
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