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And my next song, I said, should be A tale of gone-by chivalry.

My task is done, the tale is told, The lute drops from my wearied hold; Spreads no green earth, no summer sky To raise fresh visions for my eye, The hour is dark, the winter rain Beats cold and harsh against the pane, Where, spendthrift like, the branches twine, Worn, knotted, of a leafless vine; And the wind howls in gusts around, As omens were in each drear sound,— Omens that bear upon their breath Tidings of sorrow, pain, and death. Thus should it be,—I could not bear The breath of flowers, the sunny air