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My first was of a gorgeous hall, Lighted up for festival; Braided tresses, and cheeks of bloom, Diamond agraff, and foam-white plume; Censers of roses, vases of light Like what the moon sheds on a summer night. Youths and maidens with linked hands, Joined in the graceful sarabands, Smiled on the canvass; but apart Was one who leant in silent mood, As revelry to his sick heart Were worse than veriest solitude. Pale, dark-eyed, beautiful, and young, Such as he had shone o’er my slumbers, When I had only slept to dream Over again his magic numbers.