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I placed a scarlet campion flower
In the wreathed tresses of my head.
"No damosel in hall or bower
Is fairer than my love," he said.


Years after in a folded book
I found a withered campion flower;
And paled, with that swift backward look
That ghost-seers have at twilight hour.


O withered heart, O love long dead!
"Poor faded flower that shone so fair,
Well suits thy phantom bloom" (I said)
"With the white tresses of my hair."