When the rose of Morn through the Dawn was breaking,
And white on the hearth was last night's flame,
Thither to me ‘twixt sleeping and waking,
Singing out of the mists she came. ...
LADY, in thy proud eyes
There is a weary look,
As if the spirit we know through them
Were daunted with rebuke
To think that the heart of man henceforth
Is read like a read book.
Lady, in thy lifted face
The solitude is sore;
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