Isabella; Or, The Pot of Basil
LI.

John Keats

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In anxious secrecy they took it home,

And then the prize was all for Isabel:

She calm'd its wild hair with a golden comb,

And all around each eye's sepulchral cell

Pointed each fringed lash; the smeared loam

With tears, as chilly as a dripping well,

She drench'd away:- and still she comb'd, and kept

Sighing all day- and still she kiss'd, and wept.

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