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She wore purple, and when other people slept She stept lightly—lightly—in her ruby powdered slippers Along the flags of the East portico. And the moon slowly rifting the heights of cloud Touched her face so that she bowed Her head, and held her hand to her eyes To keep the white shining from her. And she was wise, For gazing at the moon was like looking on her own dead face Passing alone in a wide place, Chill and uncosseted, always above The hot protuberance of life. Love to her Was morning and a great stir Of trumpets and tire-women and sharp sun. As she had begun, so she would end, Walking alone to the last bend Where the portico turned the wall. And her slipper's sound Was scarce as loud upon the ground As her tear's fall. Her long white fingers crisped and clung Each to each, and her weary tongue Rattled always the same cold speech: "Gold was not made to lie in grass, Silver dints at the touch of brass, The days pass."

Lightly, softly, wearily, The lady paces, drearily Listening to the half-shrill croon Leaves make on a moony Autumn night When the windy light Runs over the ivy eerily.