To Oxford

As Devonshire letters, earlier in the year
Than we in the East dare look for buds, disclose
Smells that are sweeter-memoried than the rose,
And pressed violets in the folds appear,
So is it with my friends, I note, to hear
News from Belleisle, even such a sweetness blows┬░
(I know it, knowing not) across from those
Meadows to them inexplicably dear.

" As when a soul laments, which hath been blest" — ┬░
I'll cite no further what the initiate know.
I never saw those fields whereon their best
And undivulged love does overflow.
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