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for a hundred years held fast A princess in a lonely wood, Springs, summers, autumns, winters past Successive, o'er that solitude. Time flew: all nature slept around, The breeze, it seemed, had lost its wing, And raised nor in the leaves a sound, Nor ripple in the brook or spring. The wild birds had forgot to sing, And on its green and fragile stem The rosebud red, half opening Remained half open, like a gem Through long mysterious years, nor shed A single leaflet all the time. What broke this sleep, of magic bred? You know the tale,—a prince was led By chance or destiny; he saw The Beauty in her sleep sublime, And then, and then, beneath the moon, Obedient to an unknown law, He kissed her lips, and broke her swoon. Blushing, confused, but with a smile, The princess woke in strange surprise.