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Poem by George Darley
On the Death of a Recluse
'Mid roaring brooks and dark moss-vales, Where speechless Thought abides, Still her sweet spirit dwells, That knows no world besides. Her form the woodland still retains - Wound but a creeping flower, Her very life-blood stains There, in a falling shower. Touch but th stream, drink but the air, Her cheek, her breath, is known, Ravish that red rose there, And she is all thine own.
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