To Constantia
The rose that drinks the fountain dewIn the pleasant air of noon,Grows pale and blue with altered hue--In the gaze of the nightly moon;For the planet of frost, so cold and bright,Makes it wan with her borrowed light.
Such is my heart--roses are fair,And that at best a withered blossom;But thy false care did idly wearIts withered leaves in a faithless bosom;And fed with love, like air and dew,Its growth--
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