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 Will her cloak be shaped from the southern skies And girt by a starry sash— Like an azure mist, as my lady hies With the light of love in her kindling eyes? Will she move with the solemn grace that lies In the towering mountain ash! . . . Will she come at all? may it not befall That our fates are dark and dree? That I may never know her at all, And she may never know me?