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Half hidden by the violets, which breathe
Their fragrance o'er thy head; thy snowy brow
Is clear and open as a shadeless sky:
There are no records there to tell of griefs,
That came like blights in spring, or winter storms
Of tortured feelings, withering cares and joys,
Whose end was bitterness; but here are found
Pure innocence and love, and happiness.
