Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/135

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Of an old tree—a gloomy tree, whose boughs Hung o'er her as a pall:—'twas omen-like, For she died young,—of gradual decay, As if the heart consumed itself. None knew If she had loved; but alway did her song Dwell on love's sorrows.

Sleep, heart of mine,— Why should love awake thee? Like yon closed rosebud, To thy rest betake thee.

Sleep, heart of mine,— Wherefore art thou beating? Do dreams stir thy slumbers, Vainest hopes repeating?