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The girl who rears a sickly plant,
Or cherishes a wounded dove,
The watchfulness of love!
Time must have changed that fair young brow,
Time might have changed that spotless heart ; Years might have brought deceit,—but now
In love's confiding dawn we part ! Ere pain and grief had sown decay,
My babe is cradled in the tomb, — Like some fair blossom torn away
In all its purest bloom.