Here in the little room You sleep the sleep of innocent tired youth, While I, in very sooth, Tired, and awake beside you in the gloom, Watch for the dawn, and feel the morning make A loneliness about me for your sake. You are so young, so fair, And such a child, and might have loved so well; And now, I cannot tell, But surely one might love you anywhere, Come to you as a lover, and make bold To beg for that which all may buy with gold. Your sweet, scarce lost, estate Of innocence, the candour of your eyes, Your childlike pleased surprise, Your patience: these afflict me with a weight As of some heavy wrong that I must share With God who made, and man who found you, fair.
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