Isabella; Or, The Pot of Basil
XLVI.

John Keats

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She gaz'd into the fresh-thrown mould, as though

One glance did fully all its secrets tell;

Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know

Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well;

Upon the murderous spot she seem'd to grow,

Like to a native lilly of the dell:

Then with her knife, all sudden, she began

To dig more fervently than misers can.

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