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I lived,—if that may be called life, From which each charm of life has fled— Happiness gone, with hope and love,— In all but breath already dead. Rust gathered on the silent chords Of my neglected lyre,—the breeze Was now its mistress: music brought For me too bitter memories! The ivy darkened o'er my bower; Around, the weeds choked every flower. I pleased me in this desolateness, As each thing bore my fate's impress.

At length I made myself a task— To paint that Cretan maiden's fate,