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It was a strange and lovely thing To mark the drooping of its wing, And how into the grave it prest Till soiled the dark earth-stain its breast; And darker as the night-shades grew, Sadder became its wailing coo, As if it missed the hand that bore, As the cool twilight came, its store Of seeds and flowers.—There was one, Who like that dove, was lingering lone,— The Bayadere: her part had been Only the hired mourner's part; But she had given what none might buy,— The precious sorrow of the heart. She wooed the white dove to her breast, It sought at once its place of rest: