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Awhile she paced her stately room— She felt its heat, she felt its gloom— The tapestry o'er the walls that hung Flung shadows it had never flung; She loathed each old familiar thing,— Her missal with its golden band; The lute, whose scarcely silent string Yet trembled with her last command; The song she sang last night—such song Would never more to her belong; Her books, her flowers—o'er all was cast The bitter presence of the past.

The silken curtains back she drew, And back the moonlit lattice threw; In came the soft and fragrant air,— In came the moonlight soft and fair,—