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How durst she hope, that when afar would be to memory brought. Oh, she had yet the task to learn How often woman's heart must turn To feed upon its own excess Of deep yet passionate tenderness! How much of grief the heart must prove That yields a sanctuary to love!

And ever since the crimson day Had faded into twilight grey, She had been in the gallery, where Hung, pictured, knight and lady fair, Where haughty brow, and lovely face, Show'd youth and maiden of her race.