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But when they sought him he was stark and cold,
The loathing spirit had spurned off the clay
That to such crime had made it overbold:
Upon his breast a little blossom lay
Of amaranth, such as grows not in earth's mould; Whence it had come or how could no man say, But, after years had passed, it only showed
The fresher, and its gold more deeply glowed.
ONE after one the stars have risen and set,