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With throbbing heart, whose pulses beat Louder than fall her ivory feet, She rises from her couch of down; And, hurriedly, a robe is thrown Around her form, and her own hand Lets down her tresses golden band. Another moment she has shred Those graceful tresses from her head. There stands a plate of polish'd steel, She folds her cloak as to conceal Her strange attire, for she is drest As a young page in dark green vest. Softly she steps the balustrade, Where myrtle, rose, and hyacinth made A passage to the garden shade.