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He strove to speak, but she was gone, He stood within the grove alone, And from that hour they met no more: But what to either might restore Or peace or hope; the gulf between, They must forget what they had been. Forget—oh! never yet hath love Successfully with memory strove. I then was 's page; and strange It was to me to watch the change That over him like magic wrought. Apart from all, in silent thought He would pass hours; and then his mood, As wearied of such solitude, Alter'd to gaiety; that mirth, Desperate as if it knew its birth,