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To Constantia
by [?]

The rose that drinks the fountain dew
In the pleasant air of noon,
Grows pale and blue with altered hue–
In the gaze of the nightly moon;
For the planet of frost, so cold and bright,
Makes it wan with her borrowed light.

Such is my heart–roses are fair,
And that at best a withered blossom;
But thy false care did idly wear
Its withered leaves in a faithless bosom;
And fed with love, like air and dew,
Its growth–