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Rh Who knocks at the gate—so late, so late?

Thou foolish heart, be still!

What is 't to thee if love or hate

Knocks in the midnight chill?

Art thou, poor heart, compassionate?

Is love so hard to kill?

''Ah me! the night is cold'', she said;

Would I might all forget;

But memory lives when hope is dead,

And pity heals regret;

As light still lingers overhead

When sun and moon are set.