Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/187

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Then, changing from the soft slow step, Her white feet bounded on the wind Like gleaming silver, and her hair Like a dark banner swept behind; Or with her sweet voice, sweet like a bird's   When it pours forth its first song in spring, The one like an echo to the other, She answered the sigh of her soft lute-string, And with eyes that darkened in gentlest tears, Like the dewy light in the dark-eyed dove, Would she sing those sorrowing songs that breathe Some history of unhappy love. "Yes, thou art mine!" said,— "I have lighted up love in thy youthful heart; "I taught thee its tenderness, now I must teach "Its faith, its grief, and its gloomier part;