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Was but a thread. Her history may be told In one word—love. And what has love e'er been But misery to woman? Still she wished— It was a dying fancy which betrayed How much, though known how false its god had been, Her soul clung to its old idolatry,— To send her pictured semblance to the false one. She hoped—how love will hope!—it might recall The young and lovely girl his cruelty Had worn to this dim shadow; it might wake Those thousand fond and kind remembrances Which he had utterly abandoned, while The true heart he had treasured next his own A little time, had never ceased to beat For only him, until it broke. She leant Beside a casement when first Guido looked