Isabella; Or, The Pot of Basil
VII.

John Keats

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So once more he had wak'd and anguished

A dreary night of love and misery,

If Isabel's quick eye had not been wed

To every symbol on his forehead high;

She saw it waxing very pale and dead,

And straight all flush'd; so, lisped tenderly,

"Lorenzo!"- here she ceas'd her timid quest,

But in her tone and look he read the rest.

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