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 Before she died, three weary days She called in anguish on his name. By twilight cool, or noonday blaze, Her luckless lover never came.

And since men rarely mount the stones That form the Tower's ruined stair, It may be that her small, white bones Still wait in lonely silence there.

Ah, when Love comes, his wings are swift, His ways are full of quick surprise; 'Tis well for those who have the gift To seize him even as he flies!