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Rh

Yet sought she not her pillow, the cool air Came from the casement, and it lured her there. The terrace was beneath, and the pale moon Shone o'er the couch which she had press'd at noon, Soft-lingering o'er some minstrel's love-lorn page,— Alas, tears are the poet's heritage!

She flung her on that couch, but not for sleep; No, it was only that the wind might steep Her fever'd lip in its delicious dew: Her brow was burning, and aside she threw Her cap and plume, and, loosen'd from its fold, Came o'er her neck and face a shower of gold, A thousand curls. It was a solitude Made for young hearts in love's first dreaming mood:— Beneath the garden lay, fill'd with rose-trees Whose sighings came like passion on the breeze.