He that loves a rosy cheek,Or a coral lip admires,Or from star-like eyes doth seekFuel to maintain his fires,—As old Time makes these decay,So his flames must waste away.
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How oft the word which we would gladly speakMight be, unto some darkly groping soul,The key to bid doubt's massive doors unroll,The free winds' breath upon the prisoner's cheek,Or. to the hungry heart, sweet pity's dole!We hurry on, nor know that they are near,As passed Evangeline the one so dear.
julia abigail fletcher carney