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The black hair was unbound, and like a veil Hung even to her feet; she held a lute, And, as she paced the ancient gallery, waked A few wild chords, and murmur'd low sweet words, But scarcely audible, as if she thought Rather than spoke:—the night, the solitude, Fill'd the young Pythoness with poetry. —Her eyes were like the moonlight, clear and soft, That shadowy brightness which is born of tears, And raised towards the sky, as if they sought Companionship with their own heaven; her cheek,— Emotion made it colourless, that pure And delicate white which speaks so much of thought, Yet flushes in a moment into rose; And tears like pearls lay on it, those which come When the heart wants a language; but she pass'd,