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Whose visions unbroken, whose trust unbetrayed, 
‘Still clings to the conquest her young beauty made;’ 
While this pretty blossom, which Cupid has brought 
From the courts of his mother, reveals a sweet thought, — 
It is Venus’s Car, and says, ‘ Fly where you will, 
In heart and in fancy I’ll follow you still;’ 
But, alas! there is nothing more left, and I turn 
Again to the hearth, where the bright faggots burn; 
Oh! dark is November, and sad are the hours, 
Uncheered by soft breezes, bright birds, and fresh flowers. 
