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She flung aside the scroll, as it had part In her great misery. Why should she write? What could she write? Her woman's pride forbade To let him look upon her heart, and see It was an utter ruin;—and cold words, And scorn and slight, that may repay his own, Were as a foreign language, to whose sound She might not frame her utterance. Down she bent Her head upon an arm so white that tears Seem'd but the natural melting of its snow, Touch'd by the flush'd cheek's crimson; yet lifeblood Less wrings in shedding than such tears as those.

And this then is love's ending! It is like The history of some fair southern clime.