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Won her, and wore her a week—no more; But that week outweighs all years to me, For she then was my Madame de Pompadour, As she yet again will be.

Alas! in the shade of that dim recess, Under the flickering Chinese lamp, On that dainty head and powdered tress Other lips set their stamp.

A chill neglected. One little week, And beneath a ringing, indented stone She slept, where incense and music seek To mingle fragrance and tone.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust— Let the dead past bury its dead; But I still hold my heart in trust, Unmated and unwed.