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AT THE OPERA
What of her face? Her face, meseems,
Was such as painters see who muse
By moonlight in dim avenues,
Yet cannot paint; or as in dreams,
Young poets see, but, when they try
To limn in verse are dumb — so I.
Yet well I know that I have seen
That sweet face in the long ago
In a rose-bower — well I know —
Laughing the singing leaves between,
In that strange land of rose and rhyme —
The land of Once upon a Time.
O unknown sweet, so sweetly known,
I know not what your came may be —
Madonna is your name for me
Nor where your lines in life are thrown;
But soul sees soul — what is the rest?
A passing phantom at the best.
Did your young bosom never glow
To love? or burns your heart beneath
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