Page:The Vow of the Peacock.pdf/95

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Together, poor bird, will pine Over beauty and hope's decline; Yet I'll envy in pitying thee: Never may the months restore The sweet spring they brought before To me—but they will to thee!

The lute was hushed—but soon again The singer's voice took up the strain.

One word, although that word may pass Almost neglected by, With no more care than what the glass Bears of a passing sigh: