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 . . . Died the leaves. Sleep I slew for thee, and for thee Drain’d the tear-wells dry. Then said I, “I shall see him now!” not knowing, Then, my speed was but thy spur.

(The Wind blows.) Hark! The sad Sea Moans...Nay, winds do walk the tree-tops ... Nay. . . what? what? . . . Footsteps! Feet running Hither, hither at last! Belovéd, Here (Heaven shield me!), I am here!

(It passes.) Gone! Past!... Not seen!...Begone! I hate thee!— Ah, no, no! .. . Yet see, yon dead leaves Rise, and with a voice of piping Dance behind thy dancing feet: