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And it passed by the sea-shore, where the foam-laces flower, Where the city barouches only rarely are seen. . . . There the queen played her Chopin in the high palace tower, And there, listening to Chopin, the young page loved the queen.

And what passed there was simple, and what passed there was charming: The fair page cut the pomegranate as red as her dreams, Then the queen gave him half thereof, with graces disarming, She outwearied and loved him in sonata-sweet themes.

Then she gave herself stormily, till night shut her lashes. Till the sunset the queen lay, there she slept as a slave. . . . And it passed by the sea-shore where the turquoise wave washes, Where sonatas are singing and where foam frets the wave.