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PARTING.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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21

PARTING.

The Moon was on thy pallid brow,
The night-winds waved thy flowing hair,
Earth seemed some fairy isle—and thou
A lonely, lovely spirit there.
The tears were in thy gentle eyes
Like half-shut blossoms bathed with dew;
The very stars bent from their skies
To gaze upon their softer blue.
I pressed thy trembling hand in mine,
And echoed every timid sigh,
That pity stole from virtue's shrine
To sweeten parting's misery.
I heard thee breathe thy last adieu,
I felt that hand withdrawn from mine;
Alas! till then I never knew
How wholly, dearest, I was thine.