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THE dews of morn, with touch so pure,
Caress with jewelled drops my fair;
Should I aspire, I am not sure,
At any rate I would not dare.
The zephyrs wanton with her hair,
And slyly revel in its gold;
I'd do it too, but I'd not dare,
I never could be half so bold.
I saw a rose once on her breast,
Ah, me! how bold to nestle there;
I'd soothe me in that snowy nest,
But, ah! I'd never, never dare.
The wintry morn, with thoughtless touch,
Diffused her cheek with crimson flush;
Ah, shame! I'd dare not half so much,
I would not cause my fair to blush.
S.
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