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18

LOVE'S GIFTS.

I

This dark-brown curl you send me, Dear,
Shall save its freshness of to-day
In gentle shrine, when year on year
Have turn'd its former fellows gray;
So shall your image in my breast
With never-fading beauty rest.

II

What love hath once on love bestow'd,
Translated in its dew of youth
To some remote divine abode,
Withdraws from risk of time's untruth.
Keeping, we lose; but what we give
Like to a piece of Heav'n doth live.